


The Cuckoo's Lullaby

by SwissMiss



Series: Tristram Holmes AU [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Family, First Time, Holidays, In which the author plays tour guide, John should know better, Kid Fic, M/M, Mycroft is not omnipotent, Original canon remix, PTSD, Parentlock, Sherlock wouldn't know what was inappropriate if it bit him, Single Parents, Switzerland, This trip was probably a bad idea, fanfic of a fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 87,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to '<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1155955">Cracks in the In-Between Places</a>'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my intrepid beta readers, ruth0007 and dioscureantwins, who are both indeed too kind. A special thanks to ladyprydian for medical advice.
> 
> This is the sequel to my fic, [Cracks in the In-Between Places](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1155955), which is in turn an AU set in the universe of [Getting Better](http://archiveofourown.org/works/226036) by [nox_candida](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida). This is not a direct sequel of Getting Better. Characters are used with permission.

This will probably not make much sense unless you read both of those fics first. I'm providing a synopsis below for the bare facts, but it's better if you have time to read the fics themselves.

 

Synopsis of "Getting Better" by nox_candida:

John, a doctor, and Sherlock, a consulting detective, are both single parents. They meet when Sherlock's 8-year-old son, Tristram, becomes friends with John's 9-year-old daughter, Emily. John's wife, Mary, was killed in an apparent mugging a couple of years earlier, and Tristram asks Sherlock to investigate. It turns out that her death was contracted by her sister, Claire, who was jealous of her and wanted John for herself. The hit was arranged through a mysterious figure known only as the bogeyman. In the course of Sherlock's investigation, Tristram and Emily are kidnapped, and Sherlock and John join forces to rescue them. However, they are unable to apprehend the kidnappers or discover the bogeyman's identity.

 

Synopsis of "Cracks in the In-Between Places":

Sherlock and John continue to work together to bring Mary's killers to justice. Sherlock believes that a man named Moran is behind everything. Sherlock tricks John into shooting Moran, and in fear of reprisal, they take the children to Sherlock's mother's house in a remote part of Wales. While there, Sherlock and John become closer, but decide they need to eradicate any threats before pursuing their relationship further. Also while in Wales, Tristram meets a man whom he believes is a bodyguard sent by Mycroft to protect them. Sherlock realizes that they have been followed, and they return to London, where he hopes to gain more information and better protection.

Soon after returning, Sherlock starts receiving body parts that have been removed from members of his homeless network as a way of sending him threatening messages. One of the messages consists of a pie with a finger in it, which Tristram unwittingly eats a piece of. Fearing that Tristram has been poisoned, Sherlock calls John. When John arrives, a sniper tries to shoot him in the same manner that John killed Moran. Tristram sees the laser sight from the sniper's rifle and pushes John out of the way, resulting in the bullet hitting Tristram in the hand.

While recovering in hospital, Tristram receives another body-part message. Sherlock realizes that it is impossible to guarantee his son's safety any longer, and decides to leave for Switzerland, accompanied by John and Emily. At the airport, Tristram sees the man he thought was a bodyguard. Sherlock realizes that is the sniper, and creates a diversion that allows John and the children to get to safety as well as resulting in the man being arrested. The story ends with the four of them setting off for Switzerland once again, this time on a holiday to recover. Or is it?

 

**Chapter One**

 

Switzerland isn't what Tristram expected. It looks exactly like London: grey and industrial and cold. And rainy. He thought there would be snow. It's December, and there's snow on the bumps of the Alps on Uncle Mycroft's globe. The tourism magazines from the seat pockets that Emily has been pawing through also promised sunny vistas of snow-covered peaks. He is disappointed. As the aeroplane slowly taxis to the terminal, the rain runs in fat lines down the window. Father, in the seat next to him, is already checking his phone, even though the No Electronics sign hasn't been turned off yet.

 

It's almost dark. They left London at 1:13 pm. The flight took an hour and forty-five minutes, but it's an hour later in Switzerland than it is in England. Tristram's not sure how that can be; surely if it is three o'clock in London right now, it is also three o'clock here. There's not really such a thing as a time machine. Is there? In any case, the new time zone, combined with the time of year and the weather, means it's impossible to see much beyond the runway, the other airplanes waiting their turn and the service vehicles zipping around like bugs on the surface of the water.

 

When the aeroplane stops and the seat belt light goes off, Emily's head pops up over the back of the seat directly in front of Tristram. "We're here!" she exclaims excitedly.

 

Tristram isn't quite as excited. He wants to be excited - he's never gone on an honest-to-goodness holiday before, much less with Father. Summers at Grandmother's don't count because that's just visiting Grandmother and he knows everything there already. It's just that he was awake most if not all of the previous night, worrying about Father, and his back is sore, both from sitting for so long and from the pressure on his half-healed cuts, and he was expecting sunshine and mountains and cows and chocolate, and it's all so _dreary_.

 

Doctor Watson is standing up too now from the seat next to Emily and stretching. He smiles at Tristram, so Tristram can't help but smile back. Even Father glances up at Doctor Watson and smiles. A little, anyway.

 

"We should wait until everyone else has debarked," Father says. He's texting something as he speaks.

 

"Yeah, just needed to stretch." Doctor Watson rests his elbows on the headrest of his seat so he is facing Father. He is still smiling. He wets his lip and looks around, as if checking whether anyone is watching them. Before he can say anything, though, his phone must buzz, because he straightens up so he can take it out of his pocket. He unlocks it and reads whatever message he's received. He glances at Father and raises his eyebrows. Father is staring steadily at his phone, but there is colour in his cheeks.

 

"Sherlock..." Doctor Watson says. "That's not fair." But he sounds pleased. "This is probably costing a fortune," he grumbles cheerfully as he picks out the letters for a return text.

 

Tristram wonders why in the world Father and Doctor Watson are texting each other when they are both right here. No doubt there is a logical explanation, but Tristram certainly doesn't see it.

 

"What do you want to do first?" Emily asks Tristram, distracting him from their fathers. She picked out several places she wants to go from the tourism magazines and spent much of the flight showing them to Tristram.

 

Tristram, of course, is not exactly able to go snowboarding or tobogganing or swimming in waterparks with his cast. He hasn't pointed that out to her because he doesn't want to dampen her fun. Maybe her father can take her to all those places while he and his father stay at the hotel. Or maybe Father will even do something just with him. He doesn't know what; there didn't seem to be anything pictured in the magazines that someone with a fractured hand could do, aside from eating and drinking. Although that would be like going to Angelo's, so maybe they could do that. Find an Italian restaurant. Or a Swiss one, as they are in Switzerland. To be honest, Tristram doesn't really want to do anything at the moment, aside from get to the hotel so he can finally rest, so that's what he says in answer to Emily's question.

 

Emily groans and says, "Boring," but she smiles at the same time so he knows she doesn't hold it against him. Tristram feels a bit bad anyway. He doesn't want Emily to think he's boring. But he really is pretty tired.

 

The aisle is free now, but Doctor Watson has to finish his text and send it before he can put his phone away and start getting down their bags from the overhead compartment. Father stands up, watching his screen. When the message arrives, he reads it and then slips his phone into his pocket.

 

"No," he says. He's obviously talking to Doctor Watson, even though he isn't looking at him. He clears his throat. "But I'll take care of it." Doctor Watson hands him Tristram's backpack. Their eyes meet, finally. Doctor Watson looks amused, but something else too. Something warm, something that makes Tristram want to look away.

 

"Okay," Doctor Watson says in a confidential voice. "But we don't-"

 

"John, yes," Father speaks over him.

 

Tristram notices that they are still working on transferring the backpack from Doctor Watson to Father. They are both holding it, and Father's hand is over Doctor Watson's.

 

"Yes," Father repeats. It doesn't sound like he's trying to convince Doctor Watson of anything; more like he's assuring him.

 

"Okay," Doctor Watson says again with a little nod and slides his hand away, leaving Father holding the backpack.

 

Father then takes down his own carry-on bag and steps back so that Tristram can come into the aisle in front of him. Tristram reaches for the backpack, but Father says he'll carry it. Tristram is surprised; after all, he was specifically told to pack light so that he could carry everything himself. He notices that Emily is wearing her little blue backpack already. But he isn't about to argue.

 

They are the last ones off the plane, which means they don't have to wait very long at the baggage claim carousel. Once they all have their suitcases - this time, Tristram does have to pull his himself - they head for the exit.

 

As they approach the glass-walled area, Tristram sees that people are lining up and showing their passports. Originally, Uncle Mycroft gave them all fake passports because they were supposed to be going into hiding from the people who were sending the fingers and teeth and bits of skin. The man who shot Tristram has been arrested, though, and this is just a holiday, so they're using their real names and their real passports. At least Father said this was a holiday, but he hasn't relaxed the way he usually does when a case is over, so Tristram really isn't sure. Maybe he's tense because of Doctor Watson. Because of the kissing. Maybe that's all there is to it.

 

The guard waves them through after flicking an eye at the maroon booklets in Father's and Doctor Watson's hands, and Doctor Watson suggests that he go exchange some money while Father sorts their train tickets. It turns out they still have a two-and-a-half hour train ride ahead of them before they get to their final destination. However, Father insists that they all stay together. Tristram is glad about that, even if it means he has to drag his suitcase halfway across the terminal until they find a bank, and then all the way back and down several escalators, following the signs toward 'Bahn/Rail'.

 

Tristram thought they spoke another language in Switzerland - and to be sure, many of the people waiting with them at baggage claim and queuing in the tiny bank weren't speaking English, but that's no different than London. All of the airport signs, though, are in English - Information, Bank, Check-in, Shopping, Taxi, Gates, Parking. Some look like whoever made the sign wasn't sure how to spell, like Telefon/Telephone and Toiletten/Toilets. But some of the signs have words in what must be another language in addition to the English - Gepäckausgabe/Baggage Claim, Ausgang/Exit, Zoll/Customs. Extrapolating, that must mean that the 'misspelled' words are also in that other language. Tristram wonders what it is.

 

Emily notices the signs too. "What's abflug?" she asks.

 

"What's that?" Doctor Watson glances down at her, although he keeps most of his attention on Father, who is, it seems, permanently several steps ahead of them.

 

"Abflug," she repeats, pointing behind her. "On that sign, it says 'Abflug Departure'."

 

"Ahbfloog," Father says over his shoulder. He stops so that the rest of them can catch up. "It's German for 'departure'." So that answers what the other language is.

 

"Why'd they put it in German?" Emily wants to know.

 

"Because that is the local language, obviously," Father says, although he's not as condescending as he normally would be. And anyway, Tristram doesn't find it so obvious. A lot of the signs are really only in English. The adverts in the light boxes as well.

 

"The people here speak another language, Em," Doctor Watson explains to her. "Although most of them understand English too. Don't worry." He gives her a reassuring smile.

 

"Abflug," Emily says to Tristram, grinning like it's a joke. It does sound funny. Tristram smiles too.

 

"Ahbfloog," Father corrects her again, then continues walking.

 

Emily catches her father's hand as they hurry to keep up. "Abflug," she whispers to Tristram and giggles.

 

Tristram looks around until he finds another one on the sign for the smoking area. He nudges Emily and waves his cast in its direction. "Raucherzone," he announces with a grin.

 

"Rrowxertsohneh," Father's voice floats back to them, rolling the R and making an awful gagging sound in the middle.

 

Emily and Tristram look at each other and burst out laughing. Doctor Watson laughs too. Pretty soon, it's a contest between them who can find the funniest one. Father stops correcting them, but it doesn't make it any less funny. By the time they finally get to 'Billette', Tristram is afraid he's going to pee from laughing so hard.

 

Doctor Watson says, "Hey, I'm going to pop over and grab some snacks for the train," when Father queues up for the ticket window. He points at a bakery directly opposite. "You want anything in particular?"

 

Father shakes his head. "No."

 

Tristram doesn't know whether he's meant to go with Doctor Watson or stay with Father. Neither of them say anything, and he's honestly tired of dragging his suitcase around, so he stands it up on end and sits down on it next to Father while Doctor Watson and Emily go to the bakery.

 

Father looks down at Tristram and frowns. "Pulling that suitcase is putting too much strain on your back. Why didn't you say anything?"

 

Tristram rotates his left shoulder. His back is sore, true, but he didn't connect that with pulling the suitcase. It's hurt since he was shot. Although that's not from the bullet; it's from all the glass that got stuck in his back from the broken window. He shrugs. "It's fine."

 

Father looks at Tristram's suitcase, then his. "Stand up," he says.

 

Tristram stands up. Father picks Tristram's suitcase up and lays it cross-wise on top of his own, so that it is resting against the long extendable handle sticking up from the top. Then he opens his carry-on bag and rattles around in it until he comes up with a roll of duct tape. He deftly wraps the tape around Tristram's suitcase and the handle so that it is held in place. He gives the combination an experimental shake to test the stability, then pulls it forward with him as the queue moves. It wobbles a little, but nothing falls off.

 

Father is now carrying everything of Tristram's; the backpack is also looped over the handle of his suitcase. Tristram feels guilty. Then he catches sight of what his father wrote on his cast: 'Remember our agreement'. Their agreement is that Tristram would get better, and Father would find and punish whoever hurt him. Father has already covered his part of the agreement, by getting the man with the gun arrested. Tristram, however, isn't better yet. That's still going to take several weeks; longer if he pulls open any of his cuts again or bangs his hand on something and dislodges the pins they put in. So really, Father is just helping him hold up his end of the bargain. That makes him feel a tiny bit better, although he knows it isn't fair to put everything onto his father. Still, he says, "Thanks."

 

Father grunts an acknowledgment.

 

Doctor Watson and Emily come back with two white paper bags. Emily shows Tristram what's inside: sandwiches and some jam-filled biscuits shaped like smiley faces.

 

"I made him get those," Emily confides, pointing out the biscuits. "Do you want one now?" She holds the bag out to him.

 

"No thanks." Tristram isn't hungry, but they do have a long train ride ahead of them, so maybe he'll feel like it later.

 

"Got you a sandwich, if you want," Doctor Watson says to Father. "Thought we can probably get drinks on the train?"

 

"Possibly," Father hedges. "They may not have a restaurant car for such a short stretch."

 

"Hey, what'd you do with your suitcase?" Emily asks, having just noticed the piggy-backed suitcases at Father's side.

 

Doctor Watson looks down. "Oh, nice idea," he says, sounding surprised and pleased. "I was trying to figure out how to handle two at once, otherwise I would have offered to take it earlier."

 

"Can we do that with mine too?" Emily pleads.

 

Doctor Watson chuckles. "I think you can pull yours a little while longer."

 

Emily pouts, but doesn't seem very put out. Even so, seeing her dissatisfaction makes Tristram feel worse. He'd rather undo the suitcase and pull it himself now, just so it's fair again.

 

The queue moves and it's their turn, so they are distracted from the question of the suitcases. They all crowd round the ticket window, and Father talks to the ticket agent in another language. At first, Tristram assumes it must be German, because of the signs, but the more he listens, the more it sounds like French. He's heard Father and Uncle Mycroft and Grandmother speaking French before when there was something they wanted to say to each other that they didn't want Tristram to understand. Do the people here speak French after all? But then why did Father say it was German?

 

Whatever language it is, Father and the woman seem to be having quite a discussion, involving her pulling out a brochure and pointing to various charts and circling things. Finally, she slides the brochure and a print-out from her computer through the gap under the window, and Father moves aside so the next person can take their turn.

 

"Something wrong?" Doctor Watson asks, craning his neck to get a look at the papers in Father's hand. Father hands him the brochure. Doctor Watson frowns at it. Tristram stands on his tiptoes to have a look. It's not in English, but Tristram can't identify it any further than that. Doctor Watson doesn't seem to be able to make any more sense of it than Tristram.

 

"Not at all," Father says. He starts to walk away. Emily and Doctor Watson get their suitcases turned around and follow him along with Tristram. Father continues to speak: "I've discovered it will be more convenient for us to buy a pass. That way, we won't have to purchase individual tickets every time."

 

"Great, so why didn't you?" Doctor Watson asks.

 

"Apparently we need photos. The agent told me there's a booth right over..." Father leads them past the ticket office. There are no more shops, just some lockers and benches and unmarked metal doors, as well as, tucked in the back, a booth that announces 'Passfotos in 3 Minuten' in big letters on the side. The words are so close to English that it's no fun. "Ah! Here," he announces.

 

Emily gets to go first, then Tristram. There's a recorded voice that says what to do, and you can even choose which language. Tristram chooses English. Doctor Watson adjusts the stool for him so he's at the right height. There's a choice between taking four different poses or just one. They only need the one, so Tristram pushes that button. Then Doctor Watson hands Tristram some coins and pulls the curtain closed so there won't be any shadows on the picture. Tristram drops the coins into the slot and smiles at himself in the reflecting glass. Then there is a flash, and it's all done. Emily's pictures have already come out of the slot on the side of the machine, so now they wait for Tristram's while Doctor Watson takes his turn. Father goes last.

 

Tristram's pictures come out while the voice is telling Father to insert his coins. Doctor Watson hands him the strip of four pictures.

 

"Looks good," he says.

 

Tristram looks at the pictures. "My hair's sticking out funny," he says, because it is. He hopes that's okay for the train ticket.

 

Doctor Watson grins. "Just like your dad's."

 

Tristram looks again. He's right. Over the ears, that's exactly how Father's hair sticks out. Tristram grins too. The drying fan comes on again and the strip with Doctor Watson's pictures drops into the slot. Emily takes it out and blows on it, holding it gingerly on the edges. Tristram leans in to see. Doctor Watson is smiling pleasantly in the picture. Tristram likes it.

 

The light flashes for Father's picture, so he must be done. He pulls the curtain back, but before he can get up, Doctor Watson says, "One more thing," and steps around Tristram and Emily so he can go into the booth with Father. He pulls the curtain shut.

 

Father says, "What are you- John!"

 

There is a shuffling, scuffling sound and the curtain billows out. Tristram ducks his head. Next to him, Emily does too. Under the curtain, Doctor Watson's legs are visible from the knees down beside his father's, but turned to the side.

 

"Put the money in," Doctor Watson says.

 

"I don't know if I have- God, how much do you weigh?" Despite the complaint, Father chuckles through the words.

 

"Give it here," Doctor Watson says briskly.

 

There is the sound of coins, followed by the computerised voice giving the instructions again.

 

"John, really, this is-" Then Father laughs, and Doctor Watson does too.

 

The sound makes Tristram want to join in. He likes hearing his father laugh. He does it so rarely. He's laughed a lot more since he's become friends with Doctor Watson. Tristram looks at Emily. He knows she also likes the fact that her father's happy when he's together with his father. After Emily's mother died, she told him once, her father was sad for a long time. Emily grins at him. He grins back. The flash goes off in the photo booth. Father and Doctor Watson are still laughing, but their voices are muffled now, and then they fall silent.

 

Tristram bends over again. Doctor Watson's legs have turned in more, as if he's almost facing Father rather than standing (or sitting?) perpendicular to him. There isn't another stool. Is he sitting on Father's lap? The light flashes again. They must have chosen the second option, to take four different pictures. The pictures of Father by himself come out, but Tristram and Emily leave them in the slot because they are more interested in what's going on behind the curtain.

 

"I think they're kissing," Emily whispers.

 

Tristram straightens up. He just came to the same conclusion. He can hear their heavy breaths behind the curtain. The light flashes a third time. Tristram steps away from the booth. Father doesn't like anyone to see them kiss. Tristram still isn't sure how he feels about it, himself. The light flashes once more for the final picture.

 

Tristram and Emily wait, but Father and Doctor Watson don't come out. The fan comes on again, and a strip of photos drops into the drying slot on top of the strip with the four photos of Father. Tristram thinks they probably shouldn't look at them, but Emily has no such compunctions. She slides the newest strip out and looks at them.

 

"I told you," she whispers triumphantly, holding the photos out so Tristram can see them. He looks.

 

The first one is funny. Father and Doctor Watson are smashed into the frame, both of their faces distorted with laughter. Father's eyes are half-closed, and Doctor Watson's mouth is open so far you can see his tongue. A laugh bubbles up in Tristram too. They look silly, but he can also tell they are having fun.

 

In the second and third photos, though, their eyes are closed and mouths are pressed together, and if Tristram didn't know better, he'd say that in fact both of their mouths are open while they are against each other. But maybe the camera just caught them at an odd angle, or as they were taking a breath. Doctor Watson has both hands cupped around Father's jaw, as if he's holding him in place, and one of Father's hands is just visible around the back of Doctor Watson's head, buried in his hair. It makes Tristram uncomfortable. They shouldn't be looking at these.

 

In the last picture, they really are taking a breath, or have stopped kissing altogether. Tristram doesn't feel any better about looking at this picture, though. Their faces are still close, but their eyes are open now and they are looking at each other. Tristram gets a funny feeling in his stomach, because this is even more private than the kissing.

 

He's never seen two people look at each other like that before, not even Emily's aunts, who are married. Maybe it's something they only do when they are alone. Certainly Father and Doctor Watson thought they were alone in the photo booth. They didn't expect Tristram and Emily to be looking at these pictures. Maybe this is part of the 'being affectionate' that Doctor Watson told him people save for when they are in private. Tristram feels like he's eavesdropping - eaveslooking maybe? Is that a word?

 

"Put it back," he tells Emily, whispering so that hopefully Father and Doctor Watson won't hear, although honestly he thinks they're well distracted at the moment. He can hear the murmur of their voices behind the curtain now, but they're too low and indistinct to make out any of the words.

 

"Why?" she wants to know.

 

"Because it's private." Tristram can't help a desperate edge from creeping into his voice. He doesn't know how else to explain it to her.

 

"They're just kissing!" Emily says, laughing a little. She turns the photo strip so she can admire it.

 

Just then, the curtain opens. Tristram jumps back.

 

"Sorry that took a bit longer," Doctor Watson says, but he's grinning in a sort of lopsided way and doesn't appear at all sorry. His hair is sticking up in back. From Father's fingers, Tristram realises. As if he's noticed where Tristram is looking, Doctor Watson smooths his hand over the back of his head. It takes a couple of passes before his hair goes down.

 

Father steps out of the booth a moment later. He keeps his eyes on the ground. "We should be going if we're to catch the next train," he says gruffly.

 

Doctor Watson looks at him sideways, pursing his lips like he's about to laugh. He clears his throat. "Yeah, the erm... the pictures..." He takes Father's pictures from where they are still waiting in the slot of the machine.

 

"Here's the ones of you kissing," Emily chirps, holding them out to him.

 

"Oh, God, I didn't-" Doctor Watson takes the pictures and looks at them. His expression falters as he glances between Emily and Tristram. "I thought I pushed the button for one." He looks down at the pictures again.

 

Father is standing behind Doctor Watson now - right behind him, the whole length of his body against Doctor Watson's back, with one hand on his shoulder - and looking at the pictures Doctor Watson's holding. His face is expressionless.

 

"I just wanted one of us together," Emily's father murmurs. "Just as a lark, I didn't-"

 

"Now you have four," Father says neutrally and steps away, walking back toward the ticket window.

 

Doctor Watson turns his head after him. A brief flash of guilt passes over his features, but rather than going after him, he crouches down in front of Tristram and Emily.

 

"I'm not ashamed of this," he tells them soberly, his blue eyes earnest in his lined face, as he holds the photo strip. "But I certainly didn't mean for you to see it. God, I'm really..." He shakes his head and looks at the floor for a moment. Then he takes a quick, deep breath and meets their eyes again. "What goes on between two adults in private is meant to stay private. So I'm sorry about that. At the same time, though, I think we need to have a talk about all of this later, because yes, you might see us hugging or kissing, and I don't want that to make you uncomfortable."

 

"It doesn't," Emily pipes up. "You're happy when you're with Sherlock. I like it when you laugh."

 

Doctor Watson smiles at her fondly. "That's great, Ems. And I do appreciate it. You're right, being with Sherlock makes me happy ... most of the time, anyway," he adds wryly. "What about you, Tris?"

 

Tristram knows he's supposed to say he doesn't mind it, either. He's supposed to say it doesn't make him uncomfortable when he sees his father touching Doctor Watson, or kissing him. He's supposed to say he's happy that they're friends. He is, too, looked at objectively, but at the same time there are lots of other feelings mixed up with the logical happiness that kind of drown it out. He has to say something, though, so he tells Doctor Watson the same thing he told his father that night in the taxi after their last visit to the Watsons': "It's fine."

 

Doctor Watson's face crumples a little and he reaches out to take hold of Tristram's good hand. "Tris, you know, no matter what, your father loves you. You are the most important thing in his life. Nothing is going to change that. Nothing."

 

Tristram knows that's not entirely true. Father's work is the most important thing in his life. But that's fine. Really fine, not just saying it's fine. Tristram is perfectly happy with his life with his father. He's not sure about the love part either. He knows that parents are supposed to love their children, but he honestly, truly has no idea what his father would say if anyone asked him whether he loved Tristram. Certainly he's never said it to him. If anyone asked Tristram whether he loved his father, he'd say 'yes' because he knows it's expected, but he's not sure that all the complicated things that well up in him when he thinks about his father is what other people call 'love'. It's not like there's a litmus test for it. Maybe Father has the same problem.

 

The three of them trail back to the ticket window, where Father is purchasing their rail passes. They hang back a bit so as not to be in the way of the other passengers. Tristram feels a lump of sadness in his stomach, which is ridiculous. Everything is fine. Doctor Watson puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder and squeezes it gently. It's probably meant to be reassuring. Tristram wants to lean into it, to lean against Doctor Watson and let himself be reassured, but that would be like saying it's really okay with him that he and Father were kissing. So he doesn't. Tristram looks down, turning his arm around so he can see what's written on the other side of his cast. 'You are incredibly brave. Thank you. -John'. Tristram feels anything other than brave at the moment. He turns his arm back around so the message is hidden again.

 

Beside him, Emily has taken one of the smiley-faced biscuits out of the bakery bag. She offers it to Tristram. He shakes his head and says, "No thanks." She shrugs and munches on it herself.

 

Tristram lets his eyes wander over the other travellers. In addition to those standing in line for rail tickets, there are people meandering between the shops, some laden with two or three purses or backpacks slung across their bodies. Others are walking briskly, like they know where they're going, carrying briefcases or pulling tidy little suitcases on wheels. He doesn't see any security guards. There are also no windows down on this level.

 

Father comes back with some laminated cards in his hand. He gives two to Doctor Watson, and keeps two for himself. Doctor Watson takes his hand off Tristram's shoulder.

 

The railway platforms themselves are one more level down. It's dark and drafty. It reminds Tristram of the Underground in London, in a way, only bigger and less friendly, somehow. Tristram likes riding the Underground. It always feels like an adventure. This is an adventure too, but there's too much uncertainty, in too many ways, for Tristram to really enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The descriptions of the layout of the airport, train station and shops are as I recall them, although I added in the photo booth in that corner.
> 
> Here is where you can buy railway tickets at the Zurich airport. The bakery is right about where the photographer is standing.
> 
> And here's what the platform looks like, one level lower:
> 
> I fudged with the rail passes. In fact, you can buy a pass for 20 francs valid for one year that enables children to ride for free when accompanied by one of their parents, and you don't need a photo for that. But I wanted photos of the children for something that will come later. Not a big deal, but I just thought this was a neat way of slipping it in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ruth0007 and dioscureantwins for the beta reading.

**Chapter Two**

  
They have to take two trains to get to the town they're staying in. Tristram dozes for a good portion of the journey on the first one, leaning his head against the cold window. It's too dark to see anything outside other than the occasional light, and much of the route takes them through tunnels anyway.  
  
When they switch to the second train, Emily shares out the sandwiches and the rest of the biscuits. Doctor Watson goes to the restaurant car - it turns out there is one - and comes back with drinks for them all, carefully balanced in a cardboard tray. There are little bottles of apple juice for Tristram and Emily. Tristram drinks some of his, but it's fizzy, which he wasn't expecting, so he puts the lid back on and sets it on the little tray by the window.  
  
Father makes a face and complains about his coffee a bit too, but he drinks it. Doctor Watson leans back in his seat across from Father, sipping his coffee and watching him. Father does the same, only with less sipping of his coffee. They both look like they might start laughing at any moment. Tristram wonders whether something funny has happened that he didn't notice. Maybe there is something peculiar about the coffee.  
  
Father's legs are long enough that his knees almost touch Doctor Watson's, but they don't actually touch. Doctor Watson takes another sip of his coffee. He grins at Father, then looks away, out the window, even though there's nothing to see there because of the darkness, trying to hide his grin in his coffee cup. Tristram looks up at Father, beside him. He's still watching Doctor Watson. He must feel Tristram's eyes on him, though, because he turns his head and looks at Tristram instead. His eyes click into focus, like he's just seen something.  
  
He reaches across Tristram to set his cup down next to Tristram's juice, raises the arm rest between their seats - Tristram didn't even know you could do that - and unwraps the scarf from his neck. He then wads the scarf up and lays it on his leg, over his coat.  
  
"Lie down," he says, patting the scarf.  
  
Tristram doesn't understand. Why should he lie down?  
  
As if Father's heard Tristram's thoughts - he probably has, somehow - he explains, "You're exhausted, and we have over an hour still to go. Lie down." He raises his arm to give Tristram room. Tristram is tired, it's true. Father's never offered to let him lie down on his lap before, though. At least not that Tristram can recall. Maybe he did when Tristram was very little. He's acting now as if it's nothing unusual, anyway.  
  
"Me too," Tristram hears Emily say. He looks over at the seats facing them. Emily has also raised the arm rest between her seat and her father's. Doctor Watson looks surprised as she drops onto her side with her head cushioned on his leg. Her legs are too long to curl up onto the seat, so they dangle somewhat awkwardly down toward the floor.  
  
"Here, wait... Sit up a moment." Doctor Watson takes his jacket off and folds it over his lap. Emily lies down again, using the jacket as a pillow.  
  
Tristram mirrors her, resting his cheek on Father's soft blue scarf. It's not entirely comfortable with his back twisted, but Tristram doesn't care. He especially doesn't care when Father lowers his arm to rest it on Tristram. Father sometimes puts his coat over Tristram when Tristram falls asleep on the couch at home. This is ten times better. Across from them, he sees Doctor Watson is back to watching Father. He slides his foot forward, just enough so that it makes contact with Father's, and gets a soft look in his eyes. Tristram sees shades of the fourth picture from the photo booth and closes his eyes.  
  
The gentle motion of the train is soothing; the weight of Father's arm on the side of his torso even more so. Tristram dozes for a while - possibly even falls asleep - until he's jolted back to wakefulness by a squeal from Emily.  
  
"Ooh, look, snow!"  
  
Tristram sits up. Emily is so excited she is bouncing in her seat. He looks out the window. Indeed. They are stopped at a station, and although the platforms have been cleared, just beyond them on the edge of the glow from the lonely station lamps, Tristram can see huge, lumpy piles of white lurking in the shadows. Doctor Watson says it's a shame they're not coming through during the day, because this is apparently a famous route with some spectacular views.  
  
Tristram doesn't lie down again after that, but he does dare to lean back against Father's arm. Father doesn't say anything. Tristram's angled so he can see out the window, although there's nothing to look at except the station lights when they pass through. Emily stays where she is, with her nose practically glued to the window, eagerly monitoring the snow levels.  
  
The station they finally get off at - Meiringen, according to the blue signs hanging on the lampposts - also has snow, but it's just a thin layer, and already disappearing where people have walked through it. There's nothing more coming down at the moment, but it's cold and dark. The train tracks are outside, and Father zips up Tristram's jacket for him as soon as they are off the train. There's not even a proper station, more of a long shed really, with a ticket window and some racks with brochures inside, and a vending machine for snacks and drinks on the back side toward the tracks.  
  
Hardly anyone else gets off the train, and the street in front of the station is almost empty. There are a couple of taxis idling and occasionally a car will drive slowly past, its tires squelching wetly through the slush. The buildings are all very square and very neat and the same off-white colour, their tops barely visible in the low street lights, and all of them have the same kinds of shutters and balconies. They aren't exactly copies of each other, but they somehow all look like they belong to the same family. The trees lining the street are all precisely the same height, and Tristram has the impression that their bare branches are all lined up at the same angle.  
  
It doesn't really look like the kind of place where exciting things are likely to happen. Tristram wonders how in the world they ended up here. He can't imagine his father voluntarily choosing to holiday in a place like this. But then, this wasn't originally meant to be a holiday.  
  
Their hotel, luckily, is just down the street from the station. Luckily because it means they don't have far to walk. Tristram feels guilty every time his father has to stop and right their suitcases when they tip due to the uneven weight distribution.  
  
Father tells them their hotel is called the Englischer Hof. The way he says it rhymes with 'loaf'. He tells them that Hof can mean either 'farm' or 'court'. Like the place where a king sits, not a judge.  
  
When the building comes into view at the end of a driveway set back from the street, it definitely looks more like a place for a king than for a farmer or a judge. It's big, for one thing: four stories tall and probably as long as their entire block on Baker Street. It has shutters on every window, and balconies all over, just like the other buildings in the town, but the dramatic nighttime lighting makes it more elegant and theatrical. Fairy lights twinkle in the manicured bushes set in pots along the driveway - again, all exactly the same height. Unlike the trees out on the street, these bushes still have their leaves, and the identical balls of greenery look to Tristram as if someone has copy-pasted them.  
  
There are pine boughs with red bows wound around the pillars holding up the roof over the broad stairs leading up to the entrance of the hotel. Suitcases are being unloaded by a man in a red uniform from a car that wouldn't be out of place in Uncle Mycroft's garage. Tristram's still not sure it's the sort of thing his father would have chosen, given his druthers, but it looks very much like the kind of place Uncle Mycroft would stay. For his part, Tristram doesn't care much, as long as it has beds.  
  
"We're staying here?" Doctor Watson asks in a strangled voice as they walk up the driveway, which has been cleared of snow right down to the black macadam.  
  
"No, I thought we'd just stop in here and ask directions to the next Travelodge," Father says in a way that means Doctor Watson's just asked a stupid question.  
  
"Yeah, but- Jesus, five stars?" Doctor Watson hisses when they get to the stairs. "When you said Switzerland, I thought you meant some little pension in the Alps, not the place where bloody Will and Kate go on holiday!"  
  
"Who?" Father sends a quick frown in Doctor Watson's direction.  
  
"The point being, I can't actually afford this, just so you know," Doctor Watson mutters.  
  
"Which is why you're not paying."  
  
Now it's Doctor Watson's turn to frown. "Looks like we'll be discussing that later."  
  
Inside, the hotel reveals itself to be much more quirky than the cookie-cutter outside indicated. There's wrought iron and gold, wood panelling whose varnish is cracked with age, marble-topped tables with angels worked into the metal legs, and intricate plasterwork decorating the high ceilings. Doctor Watson gives his and Emily's passports to Father, and the three of them - Tristram, Emily, and Doctor Watson - plop down onto the stiff blue couch and chairs in the entry hall while Father goes to the main desk.  
  
Emily looks around with round eyes. "It's like a castle," she whispers.  
  
"Not far off," Doctor Watson mutters. He sighs and rubs his hands on the thighs of his jeans. "How you doing, Tris?" he asks.  
  
"Fine." His back's pretty sore, actually. He thinks the bandaging may have slipped, going by the way his shirt is kind of sticking to his shoulder blade.  
  
Doctor Watson looks like he's not quite convinced, but he doesn't press the issue. "Are either of you still hungry? Maybe want to try and find a burger or something?"  
  
Tristram isn't. Truth be told, he just wants to go to bed.  
  
"Do they even have McDonald's here?" Emily wants to know. She doesn't look very hopeful.  
  
Doctor Watson laughs. "In this country, yes. No idea if they have one right here in this town. But there are other places you can get a burger. Better burgers. Or whatever it is they serve here."  
  
When Father returns, a short, moustached man is following him with a trolley. Father says something to the man in another language, gesturing at their luggage.  
  
The man replies something that ends in a word that sounds like 'missiure' and starts loading their suitcases and backpacks onto the trolley. Tristram recognises the 'missiure'; he's not sure exactly where he knows it from, but he knows it's French.  
  
"Suite three-oh-nine," Father says, handing a plastic card to Doctor Watson along with their passports.  
  
Doctor Watson gawps at him a bit, then says, "You- No, you can change that. No suite. No, wait, please," he says to the luggage man, gesturing for him to stop loading the bags onto the trolley. "Excuse us. Excoozay." Doctor Watson pulls Father aside out of earshot, looking rather grim.  
  
Clearly, there is some problem. Does he not want any sweets? Vikram, one of the boys in his class, isn't allowed to have sweets, but Tristram never noticed Emily being under any such edict. Although just what the connection between sweets and their hotel accommodations might be escapes him entirely.  
  
The luggage man gives Tristram and Emily a knowing smile. "It is your papas' first time here?"  
  
He speaks English! Tristram realises with a start. Not the way Tristram speaks it, so he must speak another language too. Doctor Watson did say that nearly everyone here speaks English as well as German. (Or French. Tristram still isn't sure.) It makes him wonder why his father didn't speak English to the man in the first place.  
  
"Yes," Emily answers the man's question matter-of-factly. "Well, it's my papa's first time here. I don't know about Sherlock. He's Tris's papa. He and my dad are boyfriends."  
  
Tristram is startled by that statement. Is Father Doctor Watson's boyfriend? It almost seems ludicrous, and yet it must be so. They kiss and hug and want to sleep in the same room. Does that mean they're going to all live together from now on? The idea is too huge to consider.  
  
"Your papa is the short one," the luggage man is saying to Emily, "and your papa," he says to Tristram, "is the tall one? I see it." He nods contentedly, looking over at Father and Doctor Watson.  
  
Tristram is very uneasy about the man's curiosity regarding their fathers. The man who shot him also pretended to be nice and asked about his father and Doctor Watson. Tristram looks over at them, feeling anxious. They have finished their discussion and are coming back. Doctor Watson still looks grim, so Tristram supposes that Father won.  
  
Father says something to the man - again in what Tristram supposes is French - and then the man finishes putting their luggage on his trolley and they all get into the lift. He doesn't ask any more questions.

  
&&&&&&

  
Their room, it turns out, is not a room, but an entire flat. There's a living room with an angular, uncomfortable-looking couch, two armchairs around a coffee table, and a big, flatscreen television mounted on the wall. Through another door is a bedroom with a big double bed, and yet another door yields a bathroom with a big, round bathtub and a separate shower stall. There's no kitchen, but there is a little refrigerator in the corner of the living room, along with a countertop that houses a coffee machine and a microwave. The entire place is sleek, modern and minimalistic, all stone and wood, precise lines and no carpets, and it - like the rest of the country so far - doesn't exactly make Tristram feel welcome. The only good thing as far as he can see is that the curtains are drawn over all the windows.  
  
Emily is the first to realise the problem of this arrangement. Tristram chalks it up to him being so tired that it didn't occur to him at once: there is only one bed.  
  
Doctor Watson, though, quickly points out that the couch can be pulled out into a second double bed, and sets about doing so, with Tristram and Emily assisting while Father busies himself getting his electronics set up and logged into the hotel's network.  
  
The next problem, however, soon becomes apparent. "Which do you want, the bedroom or the couch?" Emily asks Tristram.  
  
Tristram considers. The bedroom is probably going to be quieter. Tristram knows from experience that it's harder to sleep in a living room, simply because people keep walking in and out. The bedroom will also be more private. Tristram doesn't particularly need privacy, but that means that Father and Doctor Watson will want it for themselves. And if only for that reason, it doesn't really matter what preference he - or Emily - has.  
  
"Here is fine," he says, therefore, as they half carry and half slide the coffee table aside to make room for the couch.  
  
"Okay, then how about me and my dad can use the bedroom tonight, and tomorrow you and your dad can have it. Is that okay, Dad?" she asks him. "That way it's fair."  
  
Tristram looks from Doctor Watson to his father, because he's sure that's not how things are supposed to go. He thinks of his father curled up on the cold floor of their living room with his head resting on the couch next to Doctor Watson, and of Doctor Watson coming out of Father's room the next morning after that. Father said he hadn't slept at all that night, but that doesn't mean he wasn't in his room at some point. With Doctor Watson. He does not think about the two of them together in his father's room at Grandmother's. But it's a piece of evidence nevertheless.  
  
Doctor Watson straightens up and glances at Father, and Father stares back for a moment, then shrugs like it doesn't matter to him, only Tristram knows that's not true. Doctor Watson must know it too, because he takes a breath and looks at Emily then puts on a smile, the kind of smile that means he's going to say something she probably won't like. His mouth opens, but then he stops before he even says anything, and almost looks sad. "Yeah, that sounds good, Em," is what he actually ends up saying, to Tristram's mild surprise. "We'll try it that way tonight. Maybe we can switch around tomorrow."  
  
Tristram almost wants to say something, but what? Emily will be anxious if she and her father sleep in different rooms. He thinks of her going downstairs at their flat to find her father when it wasn't even properly morning, and at the safe house bringing her blanket down from the bedroom so she could curl up on the living room floor at his feet. No matter how they arrange it, someone will be unhappy. And to tell the truth, having himself and Father together in the living room is probably the best possible outcome for Tristram. It will be just like those nights at their flat when Tristram sleeps on the couch and Father sits at his desk or falls asleep in one of the armchairs. With the additional bonus for Tristram of being able to sleep on a spacious mattress rather than on the narrow couch. So he doesn't say anything.  
  
He wonders if Emily knows what just happened - that she won - but she nods blithely, no trace of triumph, and goes to bring her things into the bedroom.  
  
Father, meanwhile, has moved on and begun setting up his computer on the coffee table, unravelling the power cord and attaching a funny-looking plug on the end. Tristram wanders over to watch.  
  
"What's that for?" he asks.  
  
"They have different plugs and sockets here," Father says as his eyes skim along the baseboard. He finds what he's looking for in the corner by the window. "Here, you see?" He bends down and points at the wall socket.  
  
Tristram hunkers down next to him. Indeed. Instead of the normal three slits arranged in a more or less equilateral triangle, there are three round holes arranged in a kind of flat isosceles triangle, deep in a hexagonal recess. A normal plug would never fit. Father hands Tristram the power cord. The attachment he stuck on the end has three round metal prongs in the same pattern as the holes in the wall, protruding from a hexagonal piece of plastic that should fit neatly into the recess.  
  
"Go on, plug it in," Father tells him.  
  
Tristram does. It slides in smoothly. "Why'd they make it like that?" he asks. It seems silly not to just make the sockets normal like back home.  
  
"Because people are idiots," Father scoffs, going back to the table. He sits down in the armchair Tristram was in before - the other one being full of cushions from the couch - and turns on his computer.  
  
"I don't think that's quite the reason," Doctor Watson says with a wry smile. He's sitting on the end of the couch bed, which is now all set up. It's also a double, although not as wide as the bed in the bedroom. "I think it's more that back when they were first wiring houses for electricity and inventing things that needed to be plugged in, no one thought they might want to take their lamps and toasters with them on holiday. So everyone invented their own ..." Doctor Watson stops. Father is leaning back in his chair watching him with an amused expression. Doctor Watson grins, first at him, then at Tristram. "Your dad's right, Tris. It's because people are idiots."  
  
Tristram grins too.  
  
Emily comes out of the bedroom, already wearing her pyjamas. She skips over and leaps onto the couch bed. "Can we see what's on the telly?" she asks.  
  
"Sure, why don't you have a look while Tris and I go check his back," Doctor Watson says. He takes down the remote control from its holder on the side of the television screen and tosses it to Emily.  
  
It turns out that one of Tristram's bandages did come loose, but there was no harm done and it's easily re-bandaged. Doctor Watson didn't have room to bring the big medical case he had on the night Tristram was shot, but he's managed to fit quite a lot in the smaller kit he has with him now.  
  
"We haven't really had a chance to talk about everything that's happened," Doctor Watson says in a quiet voice as he checks the rest of Tristram's cuts too. The stitches are still in and have to stay in for a couple more days. They're starting to itch, which Doctor Watson says is a good sign; in fact, that's probably how the bandage came loose, from Tristram rubbing his back against the seat in the aeroplane. He didn't mean to; it must have just happened. He knows better than to rub his back.  
  
"Did you get to talk to anyone while you were in hospital?" Doctor Watson asks. His hands are warm and almost tickle where they contact Tristram's skin. Tristram has the odd sensation of both wanting to flinch away and lean into the touch.  
  
"You mean like a social worker?" Tristram asks. He's had to deal with social workers before. The last time was just before he transferred schools, when Father said something to his old teacher that must have raised a flag. He knows what to do: play dumb, look them in the eye, and smile.  
  
Doctor Watson nods in response. Tristram can just see the movement in the corner of his eye over his shoulder. "Yeah, like a social worker or some kind of counsellor. Did someone come by to see you?"  
  
"Yes, but I didn't tell him anything," Tristram assures him.  
  
"What do you mean? Why not?" Doctor Watson's hands pause.  
  
Tristram understands it's the social workers' job to make sure that children are safe and well taken care of. Which he is, of course. But he also understands that his living situation is unorthodox, and that the unfamiliar is often viewed with prejudice. And that his living situation, of late, has careened past unorthodox into alarming. Being kidnapped was bad enough, albeit clearly not his father's fault. Neither, to be fair, was him nearly eating a hacked-off finger and being stalked and shot by a hitman. But if anyone who doesn't know Father very well should piece all the bits together, a fairly unflattering picture of the chances of his continued health and well-being would emerge. That's all it would be, of course: a picture. He's fine, and Mister Tonga was never after him anyway. It was all a big mistake. But Tristram knows that other people have a way of not understanding that kind of thing.  
  
Quite aside from all that, however, Tristram knows better than to start giving away details of an ongoing investigation. He slipped up when he talked to Mister Tonga in Grandmother's stable and told him all sorts of things he shouldn't have. Of course, that was before he knew the man wanted to kill Doctor Watson, but it was still a beginner's mistake. Does Doctor Watson actually think he's that stupid? For all he knows, it was the social worker who planted the skin and teeth on his dinner tray. It's a good thing he didn't tell him anything, or who knows what might have happened!  
  
"You're not supposed to talk to anyone about an ongoing investigation. You might prejudice a witness or pervert the course of justice," Tristram informs Doctor Watson earnestly. He supposes Doctor Watson might really not know how these things work. He has to remind himself that he's just a doctor and has little practical experience in criminal matters.  
  
Doctor Watson shakes his head and mutters, "Jesus, I forgot who I'm talking to. Okay, no, you're right Tris... if you're the police!" His voice gets louder on the last part and he puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder and turns him halfway round so he can look Tristram in the eye. He actually seems rather agitated, for some reason.  
  
"But that's not your responsibility. You know that, right? That you don't have to worry about any of that? It's up to the police to gather the evidence and question the witnesses. It's not even really your father's job, although that's another issue. But all that aside, Tris..." And now his voice becomes softer again, as if he's reminding himself to remain calm. "It's not going to hurt anything for you to talk to a counsellor about what's going on with you inside. How you feel, what you're afraid of, if you're angry or sad, or even what makes you happy. Do you understand?" His eyes are really intense, almost like Father's get sometimes when it's imperative that Tristram understand something, only not as piercing and insistent. More sad, in a way.  
  
This thing with the talking seems really important to Doctor Watson. Not just now, either. He told Tristram almost exactly the same thing when they went along to Emily's meeting with the lady she got to play games with. Mrs Daniels, that was her name. Tristram doesn't really get how talking about anything is supposed to help. It's just words, and they can't change anything that happened, or make you forget it. Plus, there's something that Doctor Watson apparently hasn't thought of.  
  
"What if he was one of the bad guys?" Tristram whispers. He kind of doesn't want to say it any louder, as if doing so would make one of those very bad guys come out of the woodwork. Which doesn't make any sense whatsoever, but it doesn't change the fact. "What if he was just trying to trick me?"  
  
Doctor Watson freezes a bit, and Tristram can almost see the colour drain from his face. He gets paler, anyway, and says, "Oh God." Then he blinks and frowns and shakes his head as if it hurts. "Sorry, sorry," he says, closing his eyes. "I'm just... " He takes a big, deep breath through his nose and looks Tristram square in the eye again. "Tris, okay, how about this. All right. What if." He holds up a finger as if what he's about to propose is right there on the tip of it. "What if I find someone for you to talk to? About anything you want. Like Mrs Daniels. Right?" He makes a face that means he thinks that's a pretty good idea. "I don't know if it will really be Mrs Daniels, but when we get back... You trust me, right? Like with the paramedics. You were worried they might be trying to play a trick on us, but they weren't. They were really paramedics, and I told you that because I was sure, and you trusted me. Remember?"  
  
Tristram does remember. Nisha was nice. Although she might still have been a bad guy, but she didn't dare to do anything because Doctor Watson was with them. But Tristram nods, because Doctor Watson only wants to know if he remembers, not if he trusted Nisha or if he thinks she might have done something awful given the chance.  
  
Doctor Watson smiles a bit and looks a little less intense. "Okay, that's great. That is really, really great. Because then you know that you can trust me in this too. I will find someone for you to talk to, and I will make sure your dad makes an appointment for you with them, and that he takes you. And if you want, I'll make sure he stays right there in the waiting room the whole time, just like we did during Emily's session. Okay?"  
  
That does sound okay. Especially the part about Father staying there, because that means there's less chance of the person - the counsellor or whoever it is he's supposed to talk to - doing something unpleasant, or taking him away. (Although, he has to remind himself, Father said there weren't going to be any more kidnappings. And that's proven true so far.) Tristram does wonder how Doctor Watson hopes to make Father do all that. But maybe that's part of the trust thing. He has to trust that Doctor Watson will make good on his promise.  
  
"Okay," Tristram agrees.  
  
Doctor Watson looks pleased, which makes Tristram feel good. "That's great. Thank you," he says, and squeezes Tristram's shoulder. "All right, turn around again and let me finish this up."

  
&&&&&&

  
Tristram's supposed to be sleeping. He wants to. He's so tired, though, that he's past tired, and his brain won't slow down enough for him to drift off.  
  
Emily is in the bedroom, by herself at the moment as Father and Doctor Watson are writing messages to each other on Father's laptop. She's probably asleep, though, so she won't notice.  
  
Father and Doctor Watson have pulled both armchairs in close to the coffee table and are bent forward so they can both see the screen. They take turns typing. It took Tristram a while to figure out what they were doing, but they must be writing those messages to each other. Either they're trying not to disturb Tristram - unlikely - or else they're discussing something they don't want Tristram to hear.  
  
They're not paying any overt attention to Tristram, but Tristram's certain that Father at least knows he's awake, so he doesn't feel bad about watching them. It's not as if they're doing anything interesting, but there's not much else for him to do while he waits to fall asleep.  
  
Both of them look like they're going to start shouting out loud at one point, and there's a bit of shoving over whose hands have control of the keyboard. Father wins and types what must be a whole page, while Doctor Watson's face goes from furious to annoyed to unhappy. Then he puts his hand over Father's, making him stop typing. They turn to look at each other. Tristram thinks they're going to kiss, but they don't. Instead, Doctor Watson puts his hand up on the back of Father's neck and rubs it. They sit there like that for a few moments, watching each other, with Doctor Watson's hand on the back of Father's neck. Tristram wonders whether they are actually able to read each other's minds.  
  
Then Doctor Watson takes a sharp breath, breaking the silence, and turns back to the computer to type his response. He types slowly, much slower than Father, and Father leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers pressed together in front of his mouth, watching the screen. He sits there even after Doctor Watson stops typing, so he must be thinking. Then he blinks as if returning from his mind palace, reaches forward, and enters his answer. He hasn't even finished typing before Doctor Watson's expression changes to look like a struggle between smiling and remaining stern.  
  
He's reaching for the keyboard again when a voice sounds from the direction of the bedroom.  
  
"Daddy?"  
  
Tristram turns his head. Emily is standing in the doorway to the bedroom in her pyjamas.  
  
Doctor Watson looks up from the computer. "Yeah, Em, what is it?" he says softly.  
  
"When are you coming to bed?"  
  
"You don't need to wait for me. I'll be there in a bit."  
  
"I can't sleep." Tristram has to hand it to her: she knows exactly the pitch to use, not quite whining but hinting at trouble if she doesn't get her way.  
  
"Okay, well... I'll be there in a minute, all right?"  
  
It's clear that he expects Emily to go back into the bedroom without him, but she stands her ground, equally clearly not going to move until he goes with her.  
  
"It's all right, John," Father says. "There's not much we can do until that reply comes back. It can keep."  
  
Doctor Watson gets a funny little frown on his face, like he's not sure whether that's a good or a bad thing. Then he says, "Yeah. Yeah, all right." And then he turns to Father and says, a little awkwardly, "Erm, good night then," pushes himself halfway up out of his chair and kisses him on the mouth. Like he did at the Watsons' house the night Tristram was shot. Not like in the photo booth. Short and gentle, and without any sound.  
  
At first, Father reacts much like he did at the Watsons' house: like he's not sure what he's supposed to do. But he figures it out quickly. His face softens almost but not quite into a smile and says, "Good night," in a rumbly voice - the one Tristram thought would make a good voice for reading Dumbledore - and kisses Doctor Watson back. Twice. The second one goes on so long Tristram is afraid it's going to turn into a photo booth kiss. He wants to look away but he's unable to. But before Tristram can blink again, Father's moved his head away and is looking determinedly at the screen of his computer again.  
  
Doctor Watson straightens up and grins. "Properly," he states, pointing at Father. Tristram's not sure what that's supposed to mean. A proper kiss perhaps? It seemed like a proper enough one to Tristram. More than enough.  
  
Father makes a grumbly sound, but he doesn't sound displeased.  
  
Doctor Watson pushes his chair back and straightens his jeans, then steps away from the table. On his way past the couch, he leans over and squeezes Tristram's foot through the cover. "Good night, Tris."  
  
Tristram replies automatically, watching as Doctor Watson disappears into the bathroom and Emily finally goes back to the bedroom to wait for him. Tristram closes his eyes and waits too. He doesn't want to chance being overheard. After a couple of minutes, Tristram hears the sounds of Doctor Watson going into the bedroom, followed by his and Emily's voices. Although Doctor Watson left the door open, their voices are low and indistinct enough that he can't make out what they're saying. That's good, because it means that they probably won't be able to understand what he and Father are saying either. There are things he needs to know, but he can't ask them in front of Emily and he doesn't want to in front of Doctor Watson. Even though Doctor Watson probably - certainly - knows more than Tristram, and would be able to answer Tristram's questions himself.  
  
Tristram waits until he hasn't heard any talking from the bedroom for several minutes before he opens his eyes again and ventures to speak.  
  
"Father?" he whispers.  
  
His father makes a questioning noise.  
  
"Why are we here?"  
  
"We're on holiday," Father murmurs absently.  
  
"You're working on a case though." It's a bit of a stab in the dark, but Tristram doesn't think he's wrong.  
  
Father doesn't contradict him either. "I'm always working," he says. Tristram sees that he's going to have to be more explicit.  
  
"Did you find the-" Tristram stops himself before he says 'bogeyman'. Father doesn't like calling him that. "- the man who sent Mister Tonga?" he decides on instead. He tries to keep his voice pitched soft and low. Emily, especially, is not supposed to know the truth of everything that happened. Especially that her father was the sniper's target, not Tristram.  
  
Father stops what he's doing on his computer and looks over at Tristram. His face looks eerie and distorted in the yellowish glow from his screen.  
  
"No one is coming after you, Tristram. I promise."  
  
Tristram believes him. He has faith in his father. He was right about there being no more bombs and no more kidnappings too. But he didn't say anything about being shot. And Mister Tonga wasn't trying to hit Tristram at all. He was trying to hit Doctor Watson. So even though no one is coming after him, that doesn't mean that nothing will happen to Tristram. Or to Father. Or Doctor Watson, or Emily, Tristram finds himself mentally adding, to his slight surprise. He doesn't want anything to happen to them, either. So even though Father's reassurance is, on one level, well, reassuring, Tristram has experienced enough to know that it's no guarantee any more. His father does not, in fact, know everything, no matter how much it sometimes seems that way.  
  
Tristram understands that this is Father's way of ending the conversation. But it's also clear, both from what he and Doctor Watson were doing on the computer before, and from the fact that Father is giving him reassurances rather than a straight answer, that there is an investigation. A case. A threat that isn't yet banned.  
  
Tristram turns his head away and watches his father's oversized shadow moving on the wall. The dull click-click of the mouse pad starts up again. Tristram's eyes drift shut.  
  
A short while later, something else occurs to him that he'd wanted to ask about. He can't say exactly why he gives voice to it. Maybe he's already half asleep and his brain is gearing up for the what ifs of dreams.  
  
"Is Doctor Watson your boyfriend?" he asks.  
  
The clicking stops. Father doesn't answer. Tristram wants to turn his head and open his eyes to look at him, but it seems like an enormous effort so he stays where he is with his eyes closed. Just when he thinks Father hasn't heard him after all - or has decided not to respond - he says, "Go to sleep, Tristram."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Chapter note: The Englischer Hof was the hotel that Holmes and Watson stayed at in "The Final Problem". It was made up by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but was based on the real "Parkhotel du Sauvage" in Meiringen, so I've done the same thing, basing my descriptions on actual pictures of the hotel, its lobby and rooms from [their website](http://sauvage.ch/de/Angebote/Aktuell/Willkommen). The Parkhotel du Sauvage has 4 stars, but I bumped the Englischer Hof up to 5 just for fun.
> 
> Here is what Meiringen looks like with its similar houses:
> 
> Here is the Parkhotel du Sauvage with Christmas decorations by night:
> 
> And here's what one of the suites looks like:


	3. Chapter 3

  **Chapter Three**

  
When Tristram wakes up, it is with a queasy feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Something is wrong. He doesn't open his eyes yet, though. He's been well served in the past by pretending to be asleep. He can hear breathing next to him. That will be Father. Apparently he came to bed at some point after all.  
  
Someone else is in the room with them, though. Whoever it is isn't moving, not even really making any noise, but he can feel them. It's probably Doctor Watson or Emily, he tells himself. But why are they being so quiet, and why does he have a prickling sense of unease?  
  
He cracks his eyes open, and then he knows what the problem is. The room is bathed in weak morning light. Someone has opened the curtains. And that someone - Emily - is standing in front of the window, looking out at the wintry landscape.  
  
This strikes Tristram immediately and overwhelmingly as wrong. He doesn't even think about why. Reacting on instinct, he jumps out of bed and all but tackles her, pushing her away from the window and against the wall. He feels the sympathetic impact of her body thudding into the wall.  
  
She cries out and shoves him away. "What are you doing?" she shouts. Tristram stumbles back and has to catch the curtain to stop himself from losing his balance.  
  
"What's going on?" Tristram hears Doctor Watson, loud and urgent, but he can't see him because there are arms around him. Father's arms. Pulling him away.  
  
"Close the curtain!" Father shouts.  
  
Emily's started to cry.  
  
"What the hell-" Doctor Watson says. He charges past them, wearing a t-shirt and grey track bottoms, toward where Emily is cringing up against the wall.  
  
"I said close the curtain!" Father sounds angry now.  
  
He's half dragging Tristram through the room. Tristram twists against him, but he can't put up much resistance with one arm, and anyway Father's hopelessly stronger. Tristram finds himself deposited in one of the armchairs. Father crouches down in front of him, his eyes bright and intense.  
  
"What was it? What did you see?" Father demands as he runs his hands over Tristram's head and arms, apparently checking for injury.  
  
Over by the window, Doctor Watson almost rips the curtain out of its track as he struggles to slide it closed again. Emily is still pressed against the wall, gulping down sobs.  
  
"The curtain was -" Tristram tries to explain, but his throat closes off before he can finish the sentence. His heart is racing and it feels like he can hardly breathe. He swallows past the tightness and tries again. "The curtain was open!" There, he got it out this time, but it still feels like his throat won't open up far enough to let air in. He hasn't been poisoned again, has he?  
  
But Father doesn't seem to be listening. "And outside?" he presses. "Was there someone there? Another light?"  
  
Tristram shakes his head desperately. Why doesn't Father understand? There wasn't anything there, but the curtain was open! The curtain is not allowed to be open. Ever.  
  
"Sherlock, he's having a panic attack," Tristram hears Doctor Watson say, but his voice sounds strange, as if he's speaking from far away. "Emily, come sit down here."  
  
Doctor Watson leads Emily over to the bottom end of the couch bed. She sniffles and wipes her nose with her hand, but she's not actively crying anymore. "Did someone want to shoot me?" she asks, her voice trembling.  
  
"No," Doctor Watson says firmly and kneels down next to Father in front of Tristram. He puts his hand on Tristram's knee and looks Tristram in the eye. "Tris, everything's fine," he says in a calm voice.  
  
"Can't breathe," Tristram gasps.  
  
"I know, come on, let's do it together, let's breathe together." Doctor Watson breathes in deeply through his nose, his whole upper body seeming to rise with it. Then he blows out all the air through his mouth in a long, slow exhale. "Sherlock, Emily, everyone together, come on," he says without losing eye contact with Tristram. He starts another long inhale through his nose.  
  
Father joins in, his nostrils flaring and his eyebrows rising. Tristram feels something putting pressure on his good hand, and when he looks down, he sees Father's hand gripping his. Tristram grips back as hard as he can. Behind them, Emily takes a deep breath too, albeit shakily. Tristram finds himself inhaling along with them, although he can't keep going nearly as long.  
  
"And out..." Doctor Watson says as soon as Tristram starts to exhale. Everyone else breathes out too. They repeat it a few more times until Tristram can keep up. On the last one, Emily starts to giggle. Tristram glances over at her and can't help losing it a bit too.  
  
Doctor Watson finishes his exhale and looks at Tristram hopefully, patting his knee. "Better?"  
  
Well, he can breathe better, but he knows he messed up. He shouldn't have pushed Emily. He hurt her.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says in a small voice. He can't even look at her. Now she won't want to be his friend.  
  
"Can you tell me now what you saw?" Father asks. He's still holding onto Tristram's hand, pressing it to get his attention.  
  
Tristram shakes his head helplessly. His stomach feels like there's a knot in it. "Nothing, I just- The curtain was open." He doesn't know how else to explain it. It sounds stupid now. There might have been something there, though. Someone, somewhere, outside, looking in at them, looking for a way to hurt them.  
  
"I don't think he saw anything, Sherlock," Doctor Watson says quietly. "It's more of what I was telling you last night."  
  
What did Doctor Watson tell him? Is that what they were typing messages about on the computer? Is it the case they don't want Tristram and Emily to know about?  
  
"There might have been something there," Father growls, looking away at the floor. He takes his hand away from Tristram's, stands up and goes over to the wall where the window is. Standing beside it, he lifts the edge of the curtain carefully to look out.  
  
Doctor Watson stands up too. "What might have been there, hm?" he says to Father. It sounds like a challenge. His mouth is set in a thin line. "No one followed us here. Right? No one even knows we're here, other than Mycroft. He didn't-" His eyes get wide. "Oh no, he did not send some other team after us."  
  
Father flicks the curtain back down. "Not that I know of," he says, but he snatches his phone up from the side table where it's charging and starts typing on it rapidly.  
  
Doctor Watson pinches the skin between his eyebrows and puts his other hand on his hip.  
  
"I didn't see anything," Tristram says, because that seems to be the crux of the problem. Maybe if he makes that clear, everyone will stop being upset.  
  
Doctor Watson takes his hand away from his face and tries to smile at Tristram, but he looks tired. "It's fine, Tris," he says. "I know, you were just trying to protect Emily. You didn't want her to be hurt. You saw her standing in front of the open window and you remembered what happened at your flat."  
  
Yes, exactly! Finally, someone understands. "I didn't mean to push her so hard, though." He looks at Emily, who is still sitting on the bed. "I'm sorry," he offers, even though he knows it's not enough.  
  
"It's okay," Emily tells him, to Tristram's great surprise. "It didn't really hurt. Are you all right? You didn't hurt your hand again, did you?" She comes over to kneel on the floor next to him, leaning against his leg with casual ease. The skin around her nose and eyes is blotchy and red, but she looks calm again. Does this mean they're still friends? He pushed her into the wall, on purpose, and he didn't even have a good reason. Tristram's pretty sure if he did that to anyone else at school, he'd have made a mortal enemy and been well on his way to having to change schools again. And here she is asking him if he's all right!  
  
Tristram shakes his head in answer to her question. He wiggles his fingers inside his cast. It hurts, but not because of what just happened. He pushed her with his left hand. His right hand wasn't involved at all.  
  
"I just wanted to look outside," she tells him earnestly, then looks up at her father. "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to open the curtain."  
  
"It's all right, Em, no one's angry," Doctor Watson assures her. "And you didn't do anything wrong. Tris was just startled."  
  
"I'm really sorry," Tristram tells her again.  
  
"We can keep it closed from now on," she announces stoutly.  
  
"I don't-" Doctor Watson looks frustrated and sits down on the coffee table next to them. He puts one hand on the back of Emily's neck, but he's mostly talking to Tristram. "I understand you wanting to be careful. I really do. And we can leave the curtain closed if it makes you that anxious. But we have to go out, right? I mean, we travelled halfway across the continent yesterday. We were in the airport, out on the street, there were lots of other people around, and nothing happened. There's nothing magic about a curtain over a window."  
  
Doctor Watson's right, of course. A curtain won't stop a bullet, just like laws don't stop criminals and a lock doesn't stop Father. And if someone really wanted to shoot him - or Doctor Watson, or any of them - there would certainly be easier ways to do it. Knowing all of that doesn't stop Tristram from wanting that curtain closed. He knows it's illogical, but it doesn't change how he feels.  
  
This must be why logic is superior to emotions, like he heard Father telling Inspector Lestrade once. People - criminals - he said, make mistakes and get caught because they fall prey to their emotions. 'God help us if you ever get bored with this end, then,' Inspector Lestrade answered, which made Tristram feel proud of Father because it meant the police really needed his help. But Father won't get bored with solving crimes, so Inspector Lestrade needn't worry.  
  
If Tristram were logical, like Father - and Doctor Watson - he wouldn't have got scared and pushed Emily.  
  
Doctor Watson, though, is still trying to explain why it doesn't matter whether they have the curtain open or closed. "Look," he says, "all the things that have happened - with Claire, and the pies, and everything else. Each of them only happened once, and we had no idea what the next one-" His face does something peculiar, like he's just heard a painfully bad pun. Then he says, "Okay, no, that's not where I want to go with this."  
  
Father has drifted over to stand next to their group, apparently having finished sending his text. "What John is trying and failing miserably to say," he says, "is that whoever we have been dealing with loathes repetition as much as I do. They're not going to try to replicate something they've already done. I would rank the chances of another assassination attempt through a window as vanishingly small. However, you're forgetting the most important point: none of you are targets. Been there, done that. Tristram," Father says, looking at him, "you are safe. As are you, Emily." He nods at her before adding in a long-suffering manner, "Or as safe as one can be in a world populated by incompetent drivers, irresponsible corporations, and irresolute leaders. John is safe as long as he doesn't do anything stupid." Father smirks a bit and blinks down at his phone as it pings. "No," he says in a clipped voice and puts his phone away. "He says not."  
  
It takes Tristram a moment, but he figures that must be Uncle Mycroft, telling Father he hasn't sent anyone to watch them this time. That's good to know, because it means if he does see anything out of the ordinary, he'll know for sure it's something he needs to tell Father. Not that, it seems, anyone is expecting anything to happen. Father just said they were all safe. Mister Tonga must have been the only real danger, and he's in police custody back in England now. Tristram does wonder a bit what the cut-off body parts had to do with it all, but they weren't threatening in and of themselves in the end. So maybe that's all right now. It's certainly a relief to hear.  
  
"Right then," Doctor Watson says, slapping his palms against his thighs. "Now that that's settled, we're here on holiday and I for one mean to enjoy it. Why don't we go down to breakfast and see what this old town has to offer."  
  
"Snowboarding!" Emily exclaims gleefully.

 

&&&&&&

  
They settle on going to a toboggan run. Doctor Watson assures Tristram he can go, even with his hand in a cast. He just needs someone else to sit in the toboggan with him to work the brakes.  
  
It's quite an adventure just getting there. They have to take a bus and then a cable car, which Emily's nervous about but Tristram isn't until they actually get inside. He didn't expect it would swing around quite so much. They are packed in with lots of other people and their backpacks and snowshoes and sledges and even a dog, but Doctor Watson makes sure that Tristram and Emily get spots by the window so they can see the view. Tristram's stomach drops a bit as they pick up speed and the ground recedes below them. The town quickly turns into toy houses, and the valley with the train track and road running down the middle turn into a model railway. Tristram's hardly had a chance to take it in before a fog comes down over them, enveloping the cable car and obscuring the view. Only it's not fog, Father says: it's clouds. They are actually going up into the clouds!  
  
When they get to the top, it's still foggy - or cloudy. Most of the people they were on the cable car with set right off down the path leading away from the station and disappear within a matter of seconds. A few hang around adjusting their equipment and consulting the maps and charts displayed on the wall of the little shed housing the station. Father wanders over to look at the maps and charts too, while Tristram, Emily and Doctor Watson go out to the path.  
  
There's a lot of snow. The area around the cable car station has been trampled down to a hard, thin layer of brown ice and sludge by all the people coming and going, but on either side of the path, undulating waves of white blanket the ground. It's like walking into a dreamland. Tristram's seen snow many times before, of course, but in the city it's broken up by cars and buildings and signposts. Here, it's just a vast stretch of white fading into the mist. Tristram leans down to scoop up a handful on his mitten. It's fluffy and gritty all at once. He tilts his hand to let it fall back to the ground in a crystalline shower.  
  
Doctor Watson has also picked up a handful, which he tries to squeeze together into a ball.  
  
"It's not very good packing snow," he says. Still, he manages to make a tennis-ball-sized globe, which he tosses underhanded at Emily. She squeals and dodges, but it still hits her on the back. He didn't throw it very hard, and it falls easily away, disintegrating into white dust. She scrambles off the path to make a ball herself.  
  
Doctor Watson winces to see her kneel in the snow in her jeans. "Didn't think to pack snow trousers. I don't think you even own a pair, do you, Em?"  
  
She stands up, grinning, and flings a handful of snow toward him. She wasn't able to form it into a proper ball, and it falls apart once it leaves her hand, landing far short of him in little clumps and flakes.  
  
"What for?" she shouts happily.  
  
"To keep you from ending up dripping before we're even there," her father says. He sounds like he thinks it's funny though. He bends over again and makes another snowball. Emily runs further into the field of snow, laughing, to get away. Instead of throwing the snowball after her, though, Doctor Watson hands it to Tristram.  
  
"Go get your dad," he whispers, nodding toward Father. He's still looking at the map, but he's alone now, everyone else having apparently decided on their route.  
  
Tristram nods eagerly and carefully balances the snowball on his left mitten as he sidles over until he's close enough that he feels he has a fair chance of hitting him. He's never tried to throw with his non-dominant hand before. It feels rather awkward, but he lets fly at the broad target of the back of his father's black coat. The snowball has barely left his hand before he realises it's gone too high. He sees what's going to happen, and tries to shout out a warning: "Father, duck!" But at the sound of his name, rather than ducking, Father turns around just in time to be hit square in the face with Tristram's snowball.  
  
Tristram holds his breath. Father shakes his head, spraying snow everywhere, including back onto Tristram, and blusters and huffs to get it out of his nose. Tristram doesn't know whether to be dismayed or laugh at the sight. It's actually pretty funny, even if it was an accident. Doctor Watson seems to think so too. Behind him, Tristram can hear him whoop and cackle.  
  
Father blinks his eyes open. Snow is still clinging to his eyelashes. He narrows his eyes at Tristram.  
"Did you do that?" He doesn't sound angry. In fact, Tristram thinks he detects a smile in his eyes. He breathes out.  
  
"He told me to," he deflects, pointing at Doctor Watson.  
  
Doctor Watson grins. He already has another snowball in his hand.  
  
"John..." Father walks over to where the deeper snow starts, not letting Doctor Watson out of his sight as he gathers up snow.  
  
Doctor Watson hefts his snowball. "I'm armed and not afraid to shoot."  
  
"John, look behind you," Father says as he packs and shapes the snow between his gloves. He nods in that direction, still keeping his eyes fixed on Doctor Watson's.  
  
Behind Doctor Watson, Emily is sneaking up with a nice, fat snowball cradled in both hands and a huge, gleeful expression on her face. She shakes her head desperately at Father, trying to make him stop talking.  
  
But Doctor Watson doesn't seem to believe him. He grins and shakes his head. "You're going to have to do better than that."  
  
Tristram is beside himself with delight. One of them is going to get him. He decides to side with Father. "Doctor Watson, really, he's telling the truth! Look!" he shouts and points at Emily.  
  
She makes an exaggerated shushing face as she keeps advancing.  
  
Doctor Watson still thinks it's a trick. "Oh-ho," he laughs, "double-teaming me, you think that's-"  
  
Emily lifts her snowball over her head and flings it at her father with both hands. It falls apart like her first one did, but she's close enough that the larger portion hits him anyway, landing mostly on the back of his neck and falling down inside his collar.  
  
He yelps and twists around, and just as he does, Father yells, "Get down, John!"  
  
Doctor Watson reacts even before Tristram has processed the order, crouching on the spot, and Father's snowball flies right through the space he was just standing in and hits Emily square in the chest with an audible thunk.  
  
Her eyes widen just for a split second in surprise before she screeches in delight and runs away into the snowy field again.  
  
"All right, now you both asked for it," Doctor Watson grunts, but it's clear he means it in good fun. He scrapes together what snow he can from the remnants on the path around him, flicks it sharply in Father's direction, and scrambles after Emily without waiting to see where it lands. Father sidesteps the shot easily.  
  
He picks up some more snow and passes the resulting snowball to Tristram. "You're with me," he says with a wink and strides to the edge of the field. That statement makes Tristram feel almost like he's going to burst with pride. He is with his father. Always, in everything. He scrambles after him.  
  
A short ways away, Doctor Watson and Emily are huddled together, apparently conferring. Father bends over, the edges of his long coat dragging, and starts making snowballs, which he lays on the path next to him. "I want you to hand these to me," he tells Tristram.  
  
Tristram crouches down next to him. He tries to make a snowball with his one usable hand, but the best he can do is a misshapen lump about the size of a walnut. Beside him, Father works quickly and soon there are about a dozen snowballs piled up. Father stands up with one of the snowballs and lobs it at Doctor Watson and Emily, who look like they are making their own stockpile. Emily shrieks and covers her head with her arms, but Doctor Watson calmly watches Father's snowball sail past and land somewhere behind them.  
  
"You call that aim, Holmes?" Doctor Watson calls to him.  
  
"A warning shot!" Father calls back. He gestures for Tristram to hand him another snowball. Tristram does.  
  
The next one comes much closer, close enough that Doctor Watson has to duck, but when he comes up again, it's to send a snowball at Tristram and Father with uncanny accuracy. It glances off Father's arm, splattering Tristram, and after that there's lots of ducking and dodging and shouting and breathless laughter, with Tristram handing snowballs up to Father as fast as he can and Emily and Doctor Watson both pelting them with everything they've got. Tristram's nose is running, his feet are freezing, his mitten has soaked through, his head is sweaty and itchy under his hat, and he somehow got snow in his ear, but he can't remember ever having so much fun. Tristram has no idea who's winning, but it doesn't matter one bit. Father is glorious, standing tall and fearless next to him, never giving an inch, batting at any snowballs that come too close.  
  
When they run out of ammunition, Father leaps onto the snowy field - in his street shoes, no less - and barrels across it, scooping up snow as he goes. Emily screams and runs in one direction, while Doctor Watson goes the other way. Father throws as he runs, twisting his body to put all his weight behind it, and even as far away as they are, Tristram hears the thud of impact when he hits Doctor Watson's leg. Father must have overbalanced or slipped in his inappropriate footwear, though, as he's the one who goes down. Doctor Watson doubles back and tackles him, trying to hold him down as he heaps snow onto him.  
  
Emily has made it over to Tristram by now, panting and giggling. She has one last snowball hidden behind her back, which she tosses lazily onto Tristram where he's crouching. It lands square on his head, but he has a hat on and it doesn't hurt. Anyway, she didn't do it to be mean. It was more like a pat on the back, a way of including him. He closes his eyes as the snow flutters down around his ears, then stands up, grinning from ear to ear.  
  
"My dad's clobbering your dad," Emily announces proudly.  
  
Tristram looks at them. Doctor Watson has Father pinned and has just smashed a handful of snow into his hair. "Yeah, he is," Tristram agrees happily. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. They're here together, he and Emily and Father and Doctor Watson, somewhere in the clouds in the middle of a foreign country, cold and wet and having absolutely the most brilliant time of their lives. He's having so much fun watching them he doesn't realise at first that someone else is standing next to him, until the person speaks.  
  
It's an older woman in a blue ski jacket with the hood pulled tight around her face. Her skin is deeply tanned and lined and she is looking at Tristram and Emily with some concern. A man of similar age in a matching jacket is standing next to her, but he has his hood down, white stubble on his chin, and a green knitted hat on his head. He is frowning at Father and Doctor Watson. Both of the strangers are holding two long metal walking sticks with sharp points on the ends.  
  
"Sorry?" Tristram says, polite yet guarded, as he didn't understand what she said. It probably wasn't English anyway.  
  
When she speaks again, though, she does use English, with only a very light accent. "Are you with them?" she says. Obviously she means Father and Doctor Watson  
  
"Yeah, those are our dads," Emily says, beaming.  
  
"Is everything all right?" she asks.  
  
"They're just having a snowball fight," Tristram tells her. Although it's devolved into some kind of wrestling match at this point.  
  
Father and Doctor Watson seem to have noticed that Tristram and Emily have company, as they pull each other up and start tromping back. They are both laughing. Doctor Watson tries to brush the snow off Father as they walk, but it doesn't do much good. His black coat is virtually white and his hair is full of crystals. Both of their faces are red and wet, and they look both extremely pleased with themselves and slightly sheepish.  
  
"Can we help you?" Doctor Watson asks as soon as they're within speaking distance.  
  
"No, no, we thought perhaps there was a problem," the woman answers. She is smiling now. "We saw the two children alone, and you were..." She glances at the spot where the snow is all trampled and broken up.  
  
"Yeah, we er..." Doctor Watson and Father look at each other and snigger so hard they have to look away again. "Sorry, got a bit carried away. All in good fun."  
  
The man leans in to speak in a confidential whisper to their fathers: "Snow in here next time and you win." His accent is much heavier than the woman's. He pulls the waistband of his trousers away from his stomach and points down inside. He winks then makes a really funny face, pretending his pants are full of snow, and everyone laughs.

&&&&&&

  
The toboggan run, it turns out, is pretty much like a roller coaster. There's a metal track built down the side of the mountain, zig-zagging back and forth, and two-seater sledges that sit on the track and run down it. There's no engine and no way to steer. The only control the rider has are the two handbrakes on either side of the sledge. The fog is thick enough that Tristram can't see the bottom of the track. Tristram is very excited to try it out, especially because Father is going to go with him.  
  
Tristram sits in front, bracketed by his father's long legs, and the man in charge gives them instructions in uneven English while they buckle themselves in. Tristram doesn't catch most of it, and he doesn't think Father's paying attention either, but a few seconds later the light turns green and Father lets up on the brake. At first, they're barely moving, and Tristram thinks perhaps they should have listened to the instructions better because it looked like the people before them were going much faster. But then the track dips a bit and they go around a curve, and they pick up speed rapidly. So much so that Tristram tenses and pushes back against Father, because surely they are going to go hurtling off the track!  
  
They don't, of course, but they do go fast enough that the cold wind takes Tristram's breath away. The sledge rattles and shakes, and Tristram is jerked hard against Father's leg whenever there's a change in direction. They go through a couple of tunnels, whipping in and out so fast Tristram's eyes don't even have time to adjust to the change in light levels. The best part is a long, long spiral that doesn't quite make Tristram dizzy but disorients him just a bit when they even out into a long, straight stretch at the bottom.  
  
When they get to the end, there is a picture of a stick figure pulling the brakes on its sledge, so Father does and they slow almost to a standstill. Tristram is grinning and breathless. That was brilliant! His brain is only now starting to catch up. It feels like it's still halfway up the spiral.  
  
Ahead of them, the track goes steeply uphill. Tristram wonders how they're going to get up that. They don't have nearly enough momentum. But then something hooks onto the bottom of the sledge and he feels them being pulled. The track is at such a sharp angle that Tristram is forced to lean back against Father's chest. It's good and solid, and Tristram fleeingly feels Father's chin against the top of his head. It's almost like an embrace.  
  
Tristram turns his head to grin up at Father. "That was so cool!" he exclaims.  
  
"It was rather fun," Father concurs, as if he's surprised by the fact. His voice is right in Tristram's ear. It tickles.  
  
"Can we do it again?" Tristram asks hopefully.  
  
Father smiles and puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder. He doesn't need to hold the brake anymore, so that's fine. "I'd like that," he says. Tristram would too. Very much.

 

* * *

There are several toboggan runs in Switzerland like the one described here. I didn't have a particular one in mind, but here is a video of one:


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

  
They end up having a late lunch in the restaurant next to the toboggan run. The waitress gives them a kids' menu with pictures of all the choices, which Tristram is happy about because it means he doesn't have to rely on Father to translate anything.  
  
Emily chooses the 'poulet nuggets', which, going by the picture, are actually chicken nuggets. 'Poulet', Father tells them - although he says 'poo-lay', which sends Tristram and Emily into a fit of giggles - is French for chicken, so that makes sense. The picture Tristram picks shows a piece of breaded meat with a huge pile of chips. It says 'schnipo' next to it, which stumps Father for a while until he reads the description.  
  
"Ah, schnitzel and pommes frites," he declares triumphantly, even though that makes exactly as much sense to Tristram as 'schnipo'.  
  
"Schnitzel, that's the meat," Doctor Watson explains. "And pommes frites" - he says 'pom freet' - "is French for chips. It means fried potatoes."  
  
"I thought the people here spoke German," Tristram says. This is something that has been bothering him ever since they arrived. At the airport, Father said they spoke German, but since then there's been an awful lot of French.  
  
"They do," Father says.  
  
"Then why did you speak French to the lady at the airport and the man at the hotel?" Tristram wants to know.  
  
"Because my French is much better than my German, and anyone dealing with the public here can be expected to speak French."  
  
"You see, Tris, Switzerland has more than one language, like Canada," Doctor Watson explains. "Except here, they speak German in one part of the country and French in the other part."  
  
"Italian and Romansh as well, if we're being thorough," Father mentions.  
  
Doctor Watson raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Really? Romansh, what... is that an actual language?"  
  
"Nearly dead, but yes."  
  
"But everyone also speaks English," Emily points out with a furrow of confusion on her forehead. "Why don't they get rid of German and French and everything else? They don't need it."  
  
"Quite right," Father says, nodding at her in acknowledgment. "But people are generally idiots."  
  
"But why do you have to speak German or French to them at all?" Emily presses. "The man at the hotel spoke English to us. And so did the lady before."  
  
"And the man at the toboggans," Tristram adds. Although he didn't speak it very well. Still, it must count.  
  
"Because Sherlock is an incorrigible show-off," Doctor Watson says with a broad smile. At Father's scowl, Doctor Watson raises his hands. "Not that I'm complaining. I think it's -" He clears his throat and his tongue flicks over his bottom lip. "I appreciate your talent at languages," he tells Father diplomatically, still grinning.  
  
Father does a funny frowny-smiley thing with his face, like he's trying not to look pleased.  
  
When the food comes - with cooked carrots and peas, which Emily wrinkles her nose at but John insists she eat - Tristram is confronted with the problem of how to tackle the huge piece of meat, since he can't cut it with one hand. Rather than ask someone to cut it for him - which he's much too old for - he decides to just spear the entire thing with his fork and bite off the edges. It works excellently, and he is much pleased. He can't help, though, teasing Emily about eating nuggets made of poo. She opens her mouth and gives him a good look at the chewed-up mass in retaliation. Tristram decides he's not very keen on ever eating chicken nuggets again.  
  
Father has noodles with a creamy white meat sauce, and Doctor Watson orders a big white sausage with some unhappy looking cabbagey stuff on the side. He also gets a couple of thick slices of dark bread with it. He does the same thing as Tristram and picks up the whole sausage on his fork so he can take a bite off the end. Father watches him, both wary and cautiously fascinated.  
  
"John really, that's childish," he says after a bit, scooping up a big forkful of his own meal and shoving it into his mouth. Father doesn't have the best table manners, as Grandmother has often pointed out.  
  
"What?" Doctor Watson asks with his mouth full. Apparently he doesn't either.  
  
Father waves his now empty fork at him. "That. It's- Oh for heaven's sake, cut it up first," he grumbles, looking away as Doctor Watson takes another bite.  
  
Doctor Watson looks puzzled as he chews. He peers at his sausage, then his expression lightens and he sets it down, his eyes twinkling.  
  
"My God, Sherlock," he says, chuckling, "speaking of childish. It is a sausage. This is how one eats a sausage."  
  
"In a..." He pauses and glances at Tristram and Emily. "...certain type of film, perhaps," he mutters.  
  
Doctor Watson's grin becomes even bigger, but he picks up his knife and starts cutting his sausage up. "Properly," he says, as if he's just settled something very important. Perhaps he has. He also mentioned doing something properly last night. Tristram thought he meant kissing, but now he seems to be talking about how to eat a sausage. Honestly, Tristram thinks you can eat it either way. But Grandmother would probably say cutting it up is more proper than biting it off too.  
  
Father glances at Doctor Watson, then back at his food. "Childish," he mutters again, but Tristram can see the corners of his mouth fighting not to smile.  
  
Tristram decides he hasn't any hope of understanding what they are talking about, and dedicates himself to his own lunch once more.  
  
Their meals come with a serving of ice cream in a tall glass with chocolate sauce and whipped cream on top and a rolled-up biscuit stuck in it. It's funny to be eating ice cream in the middle of winter surrounded by snow, but somehow that makes it taste extra good.  
  
Emily digs around in her glass to get the last of the sugary liquid in the bottom. "Tonight, we can move our things around so you and your dad can have the bedroom," she reminds Tristram.  
  
Doctor Watson shifts in his seat, glances at Father next to him, and says, "Actually, Em, we'd like to try it with Sherlock and me in the bedroom tonight, and the two of you on the couch." He rests his arms on the table and smiles mildly, looking first at Tristram then at Emily. Father has his arm hung loosely over the back of Doctor Watson's chair. He looks down at his shirt, which still has some damp spots from their snowball fight-stroke-wrestling match.  
  
Tristram is ... He doesn't know what he is. Surprised? Not at the sentiment behind the request, not at this point. At the forthrightness, yes. Tristram sort of thought they'd all continue not openly acknowledging what was going on. But after the pictures of them kissing came out, Doctor Watson had said he wanted to sit down with them and talk about it. And here they are, all sitting down.  
  
Doctor Watson raises his eyebrows and lets out a long breath. He looks round at Father, who doesn't give him any help, then back at Emily and Tristram. "Okay, well, I didn't mean to put quite that much of a damper on things. If everyone hates the idea so much-"  
  
"What if I wake up in the middle of the night?" Emily asks in a small voice.  
  
"I'll be right there, Ems," her father assures her. "It'll be like when we stayed at their flat. Remember? You and Tris upstairs in his room and Sherlock and I downstairs? Only I'll be even closer. Right in the next room."  
  
It won't be exactly like when the Watsons were at their flat, Tristram thinks. Because Father and Doctor Watson didn't sleep in the same room there. Unless you count Father curling up on the floor next to the couch. Which, actually, Tristram supposes he has to. And maybe Doctor Watson sleeping in Father's room as well, because the jury is still out as to where his father spent that night.  
  
"What if I have a bad dream?" Emily asks, her voice steadier but still needy.  
  
"You can knock on the door and I'll come out and help you. But only if it's really a bad dream, or if you or Tris are sick." Doctor Watson looks at Tristram too, including him in the rule.  
  
Tristram knows that rule already, because Father told it to him when they were at Grandmother's: he's not to open a closed door without permission unless it's an emergency. A nightmare, even a bad one, doesn't qualify as an emergency. At least not for Father. But Doctor Watson apparently has a different perspective. Tristram also knows why they have the rule. Father and Doctor Watson want privacy so they can kiss and hug, and maybe look at each other like they did in that last picture.  
  
"What about you, Tris? You have any concerns?" Doctor Watson asks him.  
  
Tristram glances quickly at Father, who's watching him like he's hoovering up every bit of information with his eyes. His main concern, always, is where his father is, but that's been answered. Secondary to that is the state of his father's health, but he presumes there won't be much opportunity for him to be injured while he's shut up in a bedroom with Doctor Watson. Having a nightmare isn't really a concern. His father never does anything for him when that happens anyway. Well, all right, sometimes he'll play his violin, but he doesn't have his violin here so that's a moot point. And he knows if he's really, really upset, or hurt, or sick, the same goes for him as for Emily: knock and one of them will come out. So, no, he doesn't really have any concerns. As Doctor Watson said, it will be just like when he and Emily stayed at their flat. And that was actually fun, aside from the whole walking in on their fathers in the living room part, but that can't happen here because there will be a door between them, and everyone's in agreement as to where everyone else should - and wants to - be.  
  
And so that evening, when they shift their things around. Tristram understands - and he thinks Emily does too - that this isn't just to try it out. This will be the order of things for the rest of their holiday.  
  
Doctor Watson goes with him into the bathroom so he can check Tristram's back again. The scabs on his knees and elbows from crawling across the broken glass on the floor have almost all fallen off. His hair protected his scalp fairly well, so the cuts there haven't even needed to be checked at all after the first three days.  
  
Doctor Watson puts on a pair of surgical gloves and takes all of the bandages off Tristram's back. Every day there are fewer, as more of the cuts close over, but the three big ones with the stitches still need to be kept covered so his clothes don't catch on the threads in his skin.  
  
"Do you want to see?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
Tristram does. When it first happened, he was alarmed at the thought of all those pieces of glass in his back, and at all the blood, but Father took pictures of his injuries the next day, after everything was tidied and sewn up but before the surgery on his hand. He was so intrigued by the patterns he said he saw that Tristram decided he wanted to see them too. And when Father showed him the pictures, it really was interesting. With all the blood cleaned away and just the thin red lines left, it was like one of Grandmother's paintings.  
  
Father also made sure the doctors saved the pieces of glass they took out of his back. The vast majority were tiny slivers, but some were big enough to pick up without even using tweezers. Tristram imagines he must have looked like a hedgehog. And then there were three pieces that were as long as the blade of a pocket knife. Those were the ones that left cuts deep enough to need stitches.  
  
He and Father were planning on working together on reconstructing the pattern of which pieces of glass made which cuts based on Father's pictures once he got home. Now that's going to have to wait even longer. He wonders all of a sudden where the pieces of glass ever got to. Hopefully Father took them home and put them in a safe place before they had to leave.  
  
Doctor Watson takes a picture of Tristram's back with his phone, then gives it to Tristram to look at.  
  
"Looks pretty good," Doctor Watson says. "I'm just a little concerned about this here." He presses carefully on a spot along Tristram's left shoulder blade. Judging by the picture on the phone, it's one of the three that needed stitches. There's a little burst of pain at Doctor Watson's touch. Dull, though, not sharp like when the glass was in there. "Does that hurt?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
"A little. Not so much," Tristram tells him.  
  
"How about here?" Doctor Watson touches another spot lower down. Tristram compares the picture on the phone. That must be the second stitched-up cut. It's sore but not painful. Tristram shakes his head.  
  
The third one, also on his left side but closer to the middle, doesn't hurt either. Given that the worst cuts were along the left side of his back, Tristram thinks he must have been angled with his left side more exposed to the window than his right, even though it was his right hand that was hit by the bullet. He's pleased at the thought, since that's a deduction just like his father would make.  
  
Doctor Watson puts a salve from his kit onto all of the cuts, then covers them with fresh bandages again and goes out so Tristram can finish getting himself ready for bed.  
  
When Tristram comes out of the bathroom, Emily and Doctor Watson are sitting together on the couch bed with their legs stretched out in front of them. Doctor Watson has his arm looped around Emily's shoulder, and Emily is holding the Goblet of Fire book open on her lap. They're looking at one of the pictures together. Father is sitting on one of the armchairs to the side. He has his legs stretched out too, so that they're resting on the foot of the bed. He's doing something on his phone, not exactly part of the group, but present.  
  
Tristram isn't sure where he's supposed to fit in. He finds a spot at the bottom of the bed next to his father's feet, but facing Doctor Watson and Emily.  
  
Doctor Watson looks up from the book. "Come on up here, Tris," he says, raising his arm on the side opposite Emily in invitation. Tristram glances at his father. He'd almost rather sit down here, near him, but Father doesn't look like he's paying any attention to the rest of them. Tristram crawls awkwardly up the bed and slots himself in next to Doctor Watson. Due to the limited amount of space, he doesn't really have much choice other than to press right up against Doctor Watson's side, but it seems that's what he intended, as he wraps his arm around Tristram's shoulder the same way he's done with Emily.  
  
"Right," he says cheerfully. "I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to seeing who ends up being chosen as Hogwarts' champion."  
  
"Harry, of course," Emily says.  
  
"I thought he was too young," Doctor Watson objects.  
  
"He'll take some of the twins' aging potion or something," Emily says dismissively.  
  
"I don't know..." Doctor Watson hedges.  
  
"It's got to be Harry," Tristram says. He doesn't know how Harry manages it, but it's going to be him.  
  
"Why?" Doctor Watson asks.  
  
"Look at the cover." Tristram nods at the book in Emily's lap.  
  
Emily turns the book round so they can see the cover, holding her finger in between the pages so they don't lose their place. As Tristram said, there is clearly a picture of Harry, on a broomstick, competing in one of the Triwizard Tournament tasks.  
  
"Ha! Yeah, all right," Doctor Watson agrees. "Pretty clever." He gives Tristram's shoulder a gentle squeeze, being careful not to press on any of the bandages he just put on. Tristram glances at his father again, but he's still staring at his phone. "But how he does it..." Doctor Watson wonders.  
  
"Read it!" Emily says impatiently, holding the book up to him.  
  
"How about you hold it for me, Ems. My hands are a bit full at the moment," he says wryly.  
  
So she does, and Doctor Watson starts to read. Tristram is the kind of listener who follows along with his eyes if he has the text in front of him, so it doesn't take long before he's leaning closer in order to be able to see the page better. He likes the way Doctor Watson reads. He doesn't read too fast - not the way Father did, actually, that one time he read to them up in Tristram's room back home - and he does all the voices so well that Tristram can tell who's supposed to be talking even without the names. He's a little embarrassed to find, when the chapter draws to a close, that he's ended up with his head resting on Doctor Watson's shoulder and his cast lying on Doctor Watson's leg. It turns out that there's not actually anything in that chapter about the Triwizard Tournament and who's going to be the champion for Hogwarts, so Emily pleads with her father to read the next chapter too.  
  
Doctor Watson flips through the pages. At first Tristram thinks he's just checking to see how long the chapter is, but then he takes his arm off Tristram's shoulder and closes the book. "No," Doctor Watson says, "we're going to skip the next chapter. I'll tell you what happens, but I'm not going to read it."  
  
"Why not?" Emily asks indignantly. Tristram is also immediately and hugely curious.  
  
Doctor Watson shifts around a bit so he can see Emily better. That means the reason he doesn't want to read it is because of Emily. "Because they talk about something very sad happening," he says.  
  
"It's not real," Emily says promptly, as if Doctor Watson might have forgotten.  
  
He frowns a little. "I know, but sometimes a story like this can remind you of something that is real and make you sad too."  
  
Tristram knows exactly what he means. In one of the earlier chapters, Death Eaters kidnapped some Muggle children and were hurting them. That made Tristram think about him and Emily being kidnapped. It even (possibly) made him have a nightmare that mixed up his real memories of the man who tied him to the chair with the imaginary scene in the book.  
  
"I won't be sad, I promise!" Emily begs, but Doctor Watson is not to be moved.  
  
"I don't think you can really control that. Look, it... " He sighs a little, apparently seeing he's going to have to be straight with her. "It tells about when Harry's parents died. It's pretty vivid. I don't think that's a scene we need to paint in any greater colour."  
  
"But we already know that," Emily scoffs.  
  
"Yes, we know they died, but there's a difference knowing it as a vague fact and reading every detail as if you were there."  
  
Tristram has never seen a murder occur, but he has seen crime scene photos, and he finds himself agreeing with Doctor Watson, at least on the principle. Knowing that someone has died is just words. Seeing the protruding tongue, the glassy eyes, the wet and glistening insides on the outside... that lands in your stomach and pinches your throat. Whether or not it would be disturbing to read about the deaths of Harry Potter's parents is another issue. He doesn't think it would be, for him, but he can see how Doctor Watson might think it would be for Emily. Even if her mother wasn't killed by an evil wizard.  
  
"The imagination often conjures up far worse images than reality," Father interjects. Tristram jerks his head up to look at him. He almost forgot he was sitting there.  
  
"Not helping here, Sherlock," Doctor Watson mutters.  
  
"You've made the decision to read the book with them, you can't back down." Father settles himself more comfortably in his chair. Tristram recognises the body language as a signal that he's preparing for an argument he's confident of winning.  
  
"I'm not backing down," Doctor Watson says defensively. "I just feel that this particular scene is of a particularly sensitive nature and it won't do us any harm to skip over it and continue from there."  
  
"Because of what happened to Mary." It's not a question. It's a statement of obvious fact. The only time Father states obvious facts is when he wants to point out what idiots other people are.  
  
"Yes," Doctor Watson agrees. "Because of that." The way he says it makes it sound as if he thinks Father's the one who's being an idiot at the moment.  
  
"And you think - what, hearing how some fictional mother is fictionally murdered will somehow trigger a trauma that the actual murder of her actual mother failed to?" Father asks, as if that's the stupidest thing he's ever heard of, and Tristram knows for a fact he's heard of some spectacularly stupid things.  
  
"Jesus, why don't we all just read the damn thing!" Doctor Watson explodes and throws his arms up in the air.  
  
Father raises his eyebrows and looks back down at his phone. "Yes, why don't you?" he says mildly. "Would have been much less bother."  
  
Doctor Watson looks like he's about to rip Father a new one. That's what one of Sebastian's friends said after Doctor Watson scared them away that day way back long ago outside the school: 'I thought that old man was gonna rip you a new one!' Tristram likes the sound of the phrase, even if he doesn't know what new one is to be ripped (and he doesn't think Doctor Watson is that old, even if he does have grey hair and lines on his face). He's also not sure Doctor Watson is looking at Father in exactly the same way that he looked at Sebastian and his friends. There's less menace and more disappointment. Or frustration. Something uncomfortable, anyway, something that Tristram doesn't like seeing in the lines around Doctor Watson's eyes.  
  
"I don't mind if we don't read it," Tristram volunteers.  
  
Tristram will read it on his own, anyway. He's curious now. But he needn't mention that. He doesn't realise that he's sided with Doctor Watson against his own father until after the words are out. He didn't mean to do that. He was just trying to fix the unhappiness he saw in Doctor Watson's face. He glances apprehensively at Father, but he seems to have tuned them out again.  
  
"I don't either," Emily agrees, stoutly now, and maybe, Tristram considers, Father wasn't working against Doctor Watson after all.  
  
Doctor Watson looks down at his daughter as if he'd momentarily forgotten she was there but at soon as he does, his displeasure crumbles into concern and guilt. "Oh Ems, I'm sorry." He turns more toward her and cups her head in his hand. "I'm the one who doesn't want to read it, all right?" he tells her gently. "It's me. It's... Sometimes I... I don't forget, I'll never forget. I'll never forget Mum and I'll never forget what happened, and why she died. But there are days when I don't think about it all the time. And just now, it reminded me, and it made me sad, and I didn't want you to be sad too. Okay?" Doctor Watson puts both arms around Emily and she puts her arms around him. He pulls her against his chest and holds her tight while she buries her face in his chest.  
  
Tristram feels out of place. He wants to get out of bed, but where would he go? He looks over at his father, who is watching Doctor Watson and Emily with an inscrutable expression on his face. It's sort of the way he looked one time when Tristram had to stay home from school because he was sick, and Mrs Hudson stayed with him all day. She made him a nest on the couch and brought him broth and showed him how to make shadow animals on the wall. When Father came home late in the evening, Mrs Hudson was reading to Tristram with him curled up against her. Father stood in the doorway, just watching them for a few moments. Tristram didn't notice him at first, he'd come up so quietly, or maybe Tristram was feverish and not entirely alert. But he does remember the look on his father's face, seeing Tristram and Mrs Hudson sitting there like that. It was similar to how he looks now, watching Doctor Watson and Emily. Not sad, exactly, but it makes Tristram want to do something that will make Father smile. Tristram's never been very good at making Father smile, though. Oh, Father smiles at him - and with him - often enough, but Tristram's not good at eliciting it on purpose. Not like Doctor Watson is.  
  
Eventually, Doctor Watson lets go. He pushes the hair back out of Emily's face. "Okay?"  
  
Emily nods. "I try not to think about it, but I do sometimes. It didn't hurt her, did it?"  
  
"No, you know what the coroner's report said. It was very fast. She didn't know what was happening, and she didn't feel anything," he assures her.  
  
"Okay," Emily says, although she doesn't sound very reassured.  
  
Tristram realises he doesn't actually know how Emily's mother died. He wonders if she does. Her father mentioned a coroner's report. Did she read it? Tristram would be a little surprised, if so; not even Father lets Tristram read the reports he gets from the police. He always has to sneak peeks when Father's out. But then none of them have concerned his mother. That he knows of, anyway. Perhaps if Tristram's mother were murdered, Father would let him see the report. But of course that won't happen because no one knows where she went off to after Tristram was born. Maybe she really is dead by now.  
  
"Maybe I'm making too big a deal out of it," Doctor Watson is saying, "but there are enough horrors in real life without adding to them. Especially in this. And on that happy note, scoot under the covers, the both of you."  
  
Doctor Watson slides down the bed to get up from the end. He gives Father's shin a brief, passing rub as he goes. Maybe he's not upset with Father after all. On the other hand, he doesn't say anything to him. Father reacts by taking his feet off the bed and standing up.  
  
Tristram pulls his side of the cover up and next to him, Emily does the same. Despite the unhappy awakening this morning, the bed did turn out to be more comfortable than it looked like it would be when it was a couch. It's also big enough that they both have room to lie on their backs without touching each other, which is good because Tristram needs to have a bit of extra space for his cast. He carefully lays that arm on top of the cover as an extra precaution against Emily possibly rolling over onto it.  
  
Doctor Watson goes to Emily's side and leans down to kiss her on the forehead. "Okay, Em, we'll be right in the next room," he says, rubbing his thumb over the spot where he kissed her. "So you keep it down to a dull roar out here. You too, Tris," Doctor Watson says, pointing at Tristram. "No yodeling." He looks completely serious.  
  
Tristram would never even have thought of yodeling, but he nods and says, "Okay."  
  
Maybe Doctor Watson wasn't so serious after all, or maybe that was some secret code between him and Emily, because she giggles and lets loose with a loud, sing-song "Yodel-ay-hee-hoo!"  
  
Doctor Watson laughs and grabs her pillow out from under her head so he can swat her body with it through the cover. She shrieks with laughter and curls up to protect herself.  
  
Tristram, catching the spirit, sits up, takes his pillow, and tries to whack Doctor Watson with it. He manages to get him on the arm once before Doctor Watson grabs the pillow away from him and looms over the bed with one pillow in each hand, threatening to wallop both of them at the same time. Tristram yelps and pulls back into the corner of the couch with his knees bent up. He's not scared though. This is fun. He knows Doctor Watson isn't really trying to hurt them. And anyway, it's just pillows.  
  
"No, Daddy, don't!" Emily screams through her giggles. She writhes and twists, as if trying to find a position that will give her some protection.  
  
Tristram hasn't been tracking Father during this time, but he notices now that he's standing by the door with his coat on and his hand on the handle, about to go out.  
  
Doctor Watson must also hear him, or perhaps he saw where Tristram was looking. He turns around, lowering the pillows. "What's wrong?" he asks, immediately on alert.  
  
"Nothing, I'm just going out for a bit." Father looks annoyed, perhaps at being asked to explain himself.  
  
Doctor Watson tosses the pillows onto the bed, not paying attention to where they land. Tristram's thumps down onto his feet, but Emily's bounces off onto the floor. She quietly leans over the side of the bed to pick it up.  
  
"All right," Doctor Watson says slowly, like he's trying to buy some time to figure out what Father's doing. "I wasn't going to be long." His body tenses, as if he's going to take a step forward, but he doesn't.  
  
Father nods curtly. "I won't either." Then he slips out and closes the door with a soft click behind him.  
  
Doctor Watson stands there, still facing the door, for a few moments. When he turns around, the laughter's gone out of his face, although he doesn't look sad, exactly. More frustrated.  
  
"All right, monkeys," he says. Tristram can tell he's trying to be jolly, but it comes across strained. He picks Tristram's pillow up and passes it to him. "It's been a long day."  
  
"Where's Sherlock going?" Emily asks in a thin voice.  
  
"I've no idea," Doctor Watson says. He doesn't sound much more robust than her. "Out, apparently."  
  
"He'll be back," Tristram says, finding that he wants to assure him. He doesn't like the way Doctor Watson went from laughing to frowning so fast, and he especially doesn't like that it seems to be because of Father. Father always, always comes back. It's just that he doesn't like to be cooped up inside for long when he doesn't have something to occupy him. The prospect of being shut up in the bedroom from now until morning is probably daunting for him. Even with Doctor Watson in there with him. It's not as if he could actually sleep for ten hours. There's not even a telly. Maybe they'll switch beds back again tomorrow. At least out here there's a table where he can sit and work, and the fridge and coffee maker and sink if he wants a drink. And if Father and Doctor Watson really want some privacy so they can kiss, they could just go in the bedroom for a few minutes while Emily and Tristram watch telly or something, and then come out when they're done. There's no need for them to be alone for hours and hours.  
  
Doctor Watson frowns, distracted. He has his hand in his trouser pocket, and through the material Tristram can tell he's holding something in his fist, probably his phone. He's thinking of texting Father. Or hoping Father is going to text him, and he doesn't want to miss the vibration.  
  
"Yeah - yeah he will," Doctor Watson says finally, as if he's trying to be reassuring. He touches Tristram's foot through the covers with his fingertips and gives him a small smile, but it's really an afterthought. "I'm going to bed too, but I'll leave the door open until Sherlock gets back," he tells them.  
  
Then he goes to the bathroom, and everything falls silent.  
  
"Was he angry about the pillows?" Emily whispers to Tristram.  
  
"No." Tristram's certain that wasn't a problem. Father has neither any respect for property nor any illusions about the appropriateness or lack thereof of rough play. "I think he just needed some air."  
  
That's what Mrs Hudson always said, anyway, when Father would sweep out of the house after days of inactivity, calling out, 'Off out, Mrs Hudson,' on his way past her door.  
  
'Your poor father, all work and no play will do that to you,' she'd fret to Tristram then when she climbed the stairs to make sure he wasn't stuck halfway up the flue or halfway down the toilet. Although they'd played quite a lot today, and Tristram didn't see much evidence of Father working. There was still something, though. He was certain. Maybe Father was off to follow up on a lead.  
  
"What was your mum like?" Tristram asks then, both to get off the subject of his father and because he's been wondering ever since the earlier mention of her.  
  
Emily turns her head on her pillow to smile at him. The light coming from the open bedroom door is plenty to illuminate her features. "She was nice," she says. "She laughed a lot. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. I'll show you a picture the next time you come over."  
  
"Okay." Tristram doesn't have any particular need to see a picture, but it sounds like it's important to Emily.  
  
"What about your mum?" Emily asks. "What was she like?"  
  
"I don't know. She left when I was born." Emily already knows that, or should anyway. Tristram told her once.  
  
"I know," she says, confirming Tristram's recollection, "but don't you have any pictures of her or anything?"  
  
"No." At least none that Tristram has ever seen. They don't have any pictures of Uncle Mycroft or Grandmother either, though, so he doesn't find it peculiar, even though he knows that other people display pictures of their families.  
  
Emily's aunts have a whole bookshelf full of pictures in the living room at their house. Tristram hasn't had the opportunity to look at them more closely, but he assumes they're of family members. Maybe the picture of Emily's mother is there too.  
  
Mrs Hudson has lots of pictures of people in her family too, all over her flat. Her parents and her brother and her sister, at various ages, and their spouses, and her nephew and his wife and kids. Mrs Hudson's nephew's children aren't too far off Tristram's age. There's a boy and a girl. Tristram's sometimes thought it might be interesting to meet them. But they've never visited, even though they only live in Blackpool. Mrs Hudson gets a Christmas card from them every year with a new picture - sometimes just the children, sometimes all four of them. She always puts the picture in a frame and finds a place for it on one of her already cluttered shelves or tables or mantel and tacks the card up on her kitchen wall. There's even a picture of Mr Hudson on one of the little side tables off in the corner of her living room. He's sitting outside somewhere with palm trees in the background, smoking a cigar and smiling. Mrs Hudson says he has a rakish grin in the picture. Tristram assumes that must mean something about the way his teeth are showing like the prongs of a rake.  
  
The only pictures in Tristram's flat are of murder victims and suspects, and they only get sellotaped to the wall for a few days until Father solves their case.  
  
"I bet she was pretty too," Emily muses, referring to Tristram's mother. Tristram has no way of judging so he doesn't say anything.  
  
Emily looks up at the ceiling and continues, her voice softer and further away. "My mum used to do this special kind of plait thing with my hair. Daddy tried to do it but he just made a mess. I guess only mums can do it." She pauses, perhaps remembering her mother fixing her hair in that certain way. "And she always yelled at my dad when he'd push me too high on the swing," she adds, one memory apparently having jogged another. "She was afraid I'd fall off but Daddy wouldn't ever let me fall," she explains as if that one were too obvious.  
  
"You went to the park together?" Tristram has seen families together at the park lots of times. Mrs Hudson and Father used to go together with him sometimes, when the weather was fine and Father didn't have anything else on. That was only when he was very small, though. He barely remembers it now. But Mrs Hudson isn't his mum. Isn't any kind of relative, not really. He's never gone to the park with his whole family. He wonders if it would count if Uncle Mycroft went with him and Father, but immediately dismisses the idea as untenable; Uncle Mycroft wouldn't be caught dead at a children's playground. Although it would be rather entertaining to see him try and navigate the monkey bars with his umbrella. Tristram has to grin at the thought.  
  
"Sundays," Emily tells him, regarding her visits to the park with her parents. "When neither of them had to work. We'd go to the park and play, and then have a bun at the cafe."  
  
It suddenly occurs to Tristram that he's done exactly the same thing with Emily and Doctor Watson, that weekend when the Watsons stayed at their flat. "Like your dad did with us?" Tristram asks cautiously. She makes an agreeing sound, as if it was only natural.  
  
So is that like... are they sort of like a family now? They're not actually living together, but practically. Emily said that when people are in love, like her aunts, they get married and live together. Doctor Watson told Tristram that he and Father weren't married, and he promised they wouldn't get married without telling Tristram and Emily first. But they've been staying together, either at Llanbroc or at their flat in London, and now here in Switzerland, since that day when Emily and Tristram were supposed to spend the night at Uncle Mycroft's. And when Tristram asked Father if he and Doctor Watson were boyfriends, he didn't say they weren't. Are they in love? Is that what that look in the last picture means?  
  
Tristram hears the bathroom door open and Doctor Watson walk into the bedroom. He leaves the door open, as he said he would. There are some soft rustling sounds, and then silence again.  
  
Emily is very quiet too. Tristram's not sure if she hasn't perhaps fallen asleep, until he hears her sniffle.  
  
"Are you okay?" he whispers. Maybe she's sick.  
  
Emily sniffles deeply and says, her words distorted with tears, "I miss her." She kind of hiccoughs the last word and a sob escapes her that she immediately cuts off. She's crying. 'Her' is obviously her mother.  
  
Tristram doesn't know what to do. Should he go get Doctor Watson? He won't be asleep yet. On the other hand, Emily could get up herself and go to her father if she wanted to. She's trying to cry really quietly. Maybe she doesn't want her father to hear. She told him she wouldn't get sad if they read about Harry Potter's parents being killed. And now she's sad just from talking about it. If it were him, Tristram thinks, he wouldn't want his father to know that he was crying. So he doesn't get Doctor Watson. Instead, he slides his hand under the cover until he finds hers, and holds it. She doesn't say anything, but she squeezes his hand back. They stay like that until her sniffles stop, but Tristram is already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The language situation in Switzerland is exactly as Sherlock describes. There are four official language areas. When you cross from one to the next, all the signs on the roads and in the stores are suddenly in another language, even if they're just across the street. The German area is the largest, in the northeastern part of the country (Zurich, Lucerne, Basel), followed by the French area in the southwest (Geneva, Lausanne). The southern tip of the country - called Ticino - is Italian-speaking with the cities Lugano and Locarno, while the easternmost canton of Graubünden contains a small [Romansh](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romansh_language) enclave of about 50,000 speakers centered around the city of Chur, but has generally been assimilated into the German area. (The total population of Switzerland is around 8 million.)
> 
> Here is what Romansh looks like (top line):  
> 
> 
> Fourth line:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Aside from those Romansh speakers, however - who of necessity also speak German in order to communicate with the world at large - most Swiss are not functionally bilingual. Most German Swiss, for example, don't speak French any better than the average Brit, know little to no Italian and definitely no Romansh. Interestingly, though, nearly everyone you meet will speak English to some degree, likely better than they speak any one of the other national languages. I would assume that all the employees at a 5-star hotel who deal with the public would be at least functional in all three of the major national languages (German, French, Italian), though, plus English, and any ticketing agent as well.
> 
> Swiss German, by the way, is actually a language unto itself. It has a different grammar and vocabulary from the standard German (called High German) you might learn in school. It has several dialects that are more or less mutually intelligible, but someone from Germany would have difficulty understanding any of them. Due to the varied dialect situation, generally only High German is used in writing, which Swiss German speakers must learn in school like a foreign language. I don't even get into that in this story, though, just assuming that any Swiss will identify Sherlock as a foreigner on sight and speak to him in High German.
> 
> Here is a sample of Schwyzerdütsch (the Lord's Prayer):
> 
>  


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the best beta readers ever, ruth0007 and dioscureantwins.

**Chapter Five**

  
John hears the hotel room door open then snick quietly shut. He lays his book aside and goes out to the living room. Sherlock is there, taking off his coat. John glances automatically at the pulled out couch bed. Tristram and Emily are sleeping soundly, both on their backs with their heads turned slightly toward each other, as if they were just talking and dropped off.  
  
"Hey," John whispers, tearing his eyes away from them to look at Sherlock. "Everything all right?"  
  
Sherlock drapes his coat over a chair, but not before removing a small plastic bag with a chemist's logo on it. "Fine." He walks past John into the bathroom, taking the bag with him, and closes the door.  
  
John hovers there for a moment, gives the children one last look, then goes into the bedroom and gets back into bed. He doesn't pick up his book again, but he also doesn't turn on the overhead light, leaving the room illuminated only by the reading light on his side of the bed.  
  
He is sitting up in bed with the covers over his legs when Sherlock comes in a while later and closes the door behind him. Sherlock still has the plastic bag with him, which he drops onto the foot of the bed before going over to the closet and taking off his jacket.  
  
"So where'd you go?" John asks, deliberately casual.  
  
"Down to the bar." Sherlock hangs his jacket up in the closet, taking his time to get the line just so.  
  
"Oh right, yeah. Could probably use a drink myself," John says, trying to lighten the mood. He falls silent, watching Sherlock. Then, as if the silence is too much, he adds, "I'm a bit concerned about a couple of spots on Tris's back. I was going to take the stitches out tomorrow, but there's some redness there. Might just be irritated from travelling and all, but-"  
  
Sherlock sits down on the chair in the corner of the room and takes off his shoes. "Tristram's mother is here," he says without looking at John.  
  
John gapes at him for several seconds. "Sorry what?" he asks.  
  
"I don't much like repeating myself," Sherlock says curtly, peeling his socks off as well and tossing them into the bottom of the closet. This time he meets John's eye.  
  
"Yeah, well I'm certain I didn't hear you right, because I thought you said Tris's mother was here."  
  
"Yes." Sherlock stands up and starts unbuttoning his shirt.  
  
John leans forward, a confused smile flickering over his face. "How is that- Tristram's mother's dead."  
  
Sherlock frowns. "No, she isn't. Whatever gave you that idea?"  
  
John watches the unwitting strip tease, watches the long fingers flicking over the buttons, revealing ever more skin. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, gives himself a shake, and says, "I don't- All right, maybe I just assumed, I'm sorry. She's here? How?"  
  
"She's the lounge act." Sherlock peels his shirt off and hangs it in the closet, too.  
  
John appears to be momentarily distracted by the expanse of pale skin. "Sorry," he says when Sherlock turns around again. "She works here?"  
  
"That is what being the lounge act implies. I presume she's not doing it for charity." Sherlock undoes his flies.  
  
It takes John a while to formulate his next thought. There is narrow, dark line of hair leading from Sherlock's navel into the waistband of his pants. "Did you know she was going to be here when you booked this place?"  
  
"Of course not! I haven't had contact with her since Tristram was born. Even then it was by text message. I haven't actually seen her since several weeks before that." He shimmies out of his trousers and hangs them in the closet too.  
  
"And you're certain it's her?" John drags his eyes up to Sherlock's.  
  
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. "Of course I'm certain it's her, John. It would take a little more than a little cosmetic dental work and a new hairstyle to fool me." He then snaps his underwear down in one swift movement. He steps out of them and kicks them toward the closet. He is now completely nude.  
  
John widens his eyes, staring first at Sherlock's genitals then slowly raising his gaze once again to his face. "Hello," he says, sounding somewhat stunned, yet not in any way averse to the development.  
  
Sherlock grins predatorily and advances on him. "Hello," he purrs. He crawls up the bed until he's poised on all fours right in front of John. He nuzzles his face against John's before kissing him, first gently, then more deeply.  
  
"What are you doing?" John asks, smiling around a kiss.  
  
"I should think that fairly obvious," Sherlock says.  
  
"Yeah, hold on, we were having a conversation."  
  
"Boring." Sherlock kisses him some more. He settles himself so he's sitting on John's lap, on top of the covers, and works one hand in under John's t-shirt.  
  
"I er..." John sucks in a breath suddenly. "...was interested," he finishes, not altogether convincingly.  
  
"This is more interesting." Sherlock covers John's mouth with his again and brings his other hand up, spanning John's waist and massaging his abdomen and ribs with his thumbs.  
  
John leans back a bit so he can speak. "Tris's mother, Sherlock!" He grabs Sherlock's arms to hold him in place.  
  
Sherlock darts forward to catch his mouth again. "Irrelevant."  
  
John shakes his head and insists, pushing Sherlock gently but firmly away. "She's really not!"  
  
Sherlock exhales heavily and gets off the bed in one smooth motion.  
  
"Yeah, hang on, where are you going?" John asks, his voice rising to a strident pitch.  
  
Sherlock goes to the closet and pulls a t-shirt off one of the shelves. "If you insist on talking, I may as well put some clothes on," he says petulantly.  
  
John points at him. "That's not fair. You can't just waltz in here, announce out of the blue that Tris's mother is here, and then turn around and try to seduce me in the next breath."  
  
"No, apparently not." Sherlock pulls on a fresh pair of pants as well.  
  
John sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "No, that's- Come here. Come on, come over here." John flips the cover back next to him.  
  
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed with his back to John. He's silent for a few moments, then begins speaking in a low voice. "I had no idea she was here, I promise you. She's going by a different name now, anyway. Irene Adler. Must be a stage name. I went out to get the..." He gestures behind him, where the plastic bag is still lying on top of the cover. "When I came back, I heard her voice from the bar, some inane patter between songs, and I knew right away..."  
  
"Some coincidence," John remarks.  
  
Sherlock is silent for several beats before saying slowly, "Yes." The response doesn't invite a great deal of confidence.  
  
"You don't think so?" John asks. "You think she knew we'd be here?"  
  
"She's been headlining here for two weeks already. Apparently she's engaged for the mid-season leading up to Christmas. Our reservations weren't made until three days ago. I don't see how." Sherlock sounds dismissive, yet not entirely convinced.  
  
"And yet?"  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't know."  
  
"Sherlock... You know something. I can hear it."  
  
"I don't know." He turns his head halfway toward John.  
  
"But you suspect. What... Do you think Mycroft? He's the only other one who knew where we were going."  
  
Sherlock is silent again. Then he shoves himself back on the bed so he's sitting next to John against the headboard. "Yes, you're right," he says without much concern, giving John a small smile. "Must have been Mycroft." He pulls the covers over his legs.  
  
"Wh- Right, okay," John says, although he doesn't look like he buys it completely. "And he knows all about Tris's mother? Irene, she goes by now?"  
  
Sherlock makes a sound of agreement.  
  
"What'd she use to be called? Back when you knew her?"  
  
"Godfreya Norton."  
  
John snorts. "Jesus, were your families part of some weird Anglo-Saxon cult? Sherlock and Godfreya? Seriously?"  
  
Sherlock gives John a sidelong look. "There's nothing wrong with names that have a bit of history," he says, a bit petulantly. "What about John and Mary? Your parents must have thought long and hard about those."  
  
"Hey, those are two of the most historical names ever."  
  
"And Emily-"  
  
John holds up a hand. "Don't," he warns. "I'm not saying anything about Tris's name either."  
  
"You do every time you mention it. You can't even bring yourself to say the entire thing. Next thing you'll be calling me Sher," he says, pulling a face.  
  
"Oh, that's just... No," John says. "Sherly maybe," he offers straight-faced.  
  
Sherlock snorts.  
  
"Mike." John holds his breath, not daring to look at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock breaks first, shaking with laughter for several long seconds before he's able to speak. "He actually does get called that on occasion."  
  
"By who?" John gasps.  
  
"Women."  
  
John and Sherlock look at each other and lose it completely.  
  
"Oh God, oh my God," John wheezes when he can finally catch a breath. "Ground rules. When we are in bed together, never, ever mention your brother."  
  
"You're the one who started it," Sherlock says through diminishing chuckles.  
  
"Oh God, yeah, you're right. Next time shoot me or something." John rolls his head against the wall behind him so he can look Sherlock in the face again. His giggles slowly dissipate.  
  
Sherlock sobers too. His eyes flicker down to John's mouth. "I could try this..." He leans closer.  
  
John's breath hitches and his lips part automatically. Sherlock closes the distance and John's eyes fall shut.  
  
"Yeah... think that'll do," John says, panting slightly when they break for air a while later. His eyes, when he opens them, are slightly unfocused. "What were we talking about?"  
  
"No idea."  
  
"Me either."  
  
John leans in to kiss Sherlock again, this time turning his body sideways so he's facing Sherlock, and runs a hand lightly down his arm. When he reaches Sherlock's hand, he intertwines their fingers. He pulls away and slides down in the bed, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's. Sherlock follows him until they are on their sides facing each other. John brings their still joined hands to his mouth and kisses Sherlock's fingers.  
  
"You're going to have to tell me sometime," John murmurs against his skin.  
  
"Not now," Sherlock says. He scoots himself closer and hooks his leg over John's. His breath is loud as he watches John's lips brushing back and forth over his knuckles.  
  
John pauses with his mouth still resting against Sherlock's fingers.  
  
"Did you lock the door?" John asks.  
  
"No lock," Sherlock says. "Don't worry," he adds when he feels John hesitate. "They won't come in."  
  
John pulls the duvet up over them so they are mostly covered and rolls onto his back so he can reach the reading light on the nightstand behind him.  
  
"Leave it on," Sherlock says in a low voice and shifts so he can lean over John. He braces himself with one arm on John's chest and studies his face: his dark, half-lidded eyes, his mouth, slightly parted and expectant.  
  
"Christ, I want to touch you," John says.  
  
Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock picks up John's hand from where it's resting on the mattress and slides it under his tee. John draws his lower lip in and wets it then tilts his face up in invitation. Sherlock dips in to brush his mouth over John's, just enough so they can share breath. John stretches his lips to steal tiny kisses, but Sherlock moves with him, never allowing their mouths to fully meet.  
  
John chuckles. "Tease," he murmurs. He slides his hand further under Sherlock's shirt, palming his abdomen and side and rubbing his thumb over one nipple. All the time, his eyes never leave Sherlock's face. With his other hand, he reaches around and pulls the shirt up at the back. "All right?" he asks.  
  
Sherlock takes the hint and hunches his shoulders so John can lift the t-shirt up over his head, then shifts his weight onto his hip so he can free his arms. His top now bare, his hair tousled and tangled, he looks down at John. John stares back, drinking in the sight as if he's never going to get another chance.  
  
He takes so long that Sherlock finally breaks the silence: "You wanted to touch me," he says. A reminder, but there's uncertainty there too.  
  
"Yeah," John says. His voice is thick and hushed. He looks down at his hands as they splay across Sherlock's skin, skimming lightly up and down his sides, around to Sherlock's back and up over his shoulders. John's touch becomes more firm and sure, rubbing and kneading, testing to find the spots that make Sherlock's breath catch. There are a lot of them.  
  
Sherlock's head hangs down between his shoulders. His eyes have drifted shut and his breaths are coming faster.  
  
"Come here," John says. He nudges at Sherlock until he lowers himself to rest his bare torso against John's still clothed one. John tucks him in close, and Sherlock slides his arms under John's shoulders and nuzzles into the side of his head.  
  
He kisses John's ear and the corner of his jaw before returning to his mouth so they can exchange gentle, languid kisses. There is nothing desperate between them, only tenderness and the wonder of exploration and discovery.  
  
"You feel incredible," John says. The words come out rusty, as if he hasn't spoken in a long time.  
  
"Take this off." Sherlock twists his fingers into the material of John's t-shirt under his shoulders.  
  
Sherlock lifts up enough that John can work his shirt up and over his head. Sherlock's eyes sweep down John's torso, taking in the smattering of brown and grey hairs on his chest, the soft pink nipples and gently smiling navel.  
  
"All right?" John asks. His expression is somewhere between amused and self-conscious.  
  
Holding himself up on one elbow, Sherlock puts the flat of his other hand on John's belly and smooths it across the surface. "Very," he says approvingly before lowering his head to put his mouth on John's shoulder, his chest, his stomach. When he gets to the waistband of John's pyjamas, he pauses, then carefully brushes his cheek against the hardness underneath it.  
  
John's hands clench convulsively around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock raises his head to look at John, checking that it's all right. John's eyes are glassy and his lips are red.  
  
"You're gorgeous, fuck, come here," John whispers.  
  
Sherlock slides up John's body until their hips are aligned. He holds himself up enough that the heaviness between his legs bumps against John's without the weight of his body crushing him. Their kisses this time are deep and lingering. When Sherlock lets his weight sink a fraction lower, his hips start circling and his kisses become sloppier. John plucks at the side of his pants.  
  
"Come on, take these off..." he rumbles.  
  
Sherlock stills and bends his neck to rest his forehead on John's shoulder, breathing open-mouthed as if catching his breath. Without looking at John, he reaches down with one hand and shoves his underwear out of the way.  
  
"Where's that bag then?" John asks, patting blindly around on top of the cover behind Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock rolls his forehead back and forth against John's collarbone. "I don't... somewhere." The words come out stilted and awkward. His hands, still on John's shoulders, are sticky and damp.  
  
John stills. "Everything all right?"  
  
Sherlock lifts up abruptly. His mouth is puffy and red. His face and neck have pink blotches where John lingered or rubbed a bit too hard. His eyes are wide and there's something skittish behind them. But he says, "Fine. Do you want to penetrate me or the other way round?" His voice comes out a bit too loud for the time and place.  
  
John searches Sherlock's face and answers carefully, "I er... thought we could go on like we were, maybe a little lube? Not that... it's fine, we can try that too, but maybe when we have some more time to prepare, a bit more privacy. Is that all right?"  
  
"Yes, sorry, I..." Sherlock frowns and looks around for the bag. "It's fine," he says again. This time it's brisk and businesslike.  
  
"Hey, I don't-" John touches Sherlock's shoulder. "You're not disappointed, are you? I was enjoying it. Quite a lot. Maybe tonight we could go a little slower though?"  
  
"Yes, of course. It's just you said, 'properly', and I thought..." Sherlock finds the bag stuffed down in a fold of the cover and pulls it out. The plastic crinkles sharply.  
  
"God, no, I just meant... this. Being together, like this, no pressure and no interruptions."  
  
Sherlock props himself up on one elbow so he can dump out the bag's contents on the mattress next to them. There's a strip of condoms wrapped in purple foil and a pump bottle of a clear, viscous liquid. He sets about picking away the plastic safety seal from the bottle. John watches. Sherlock appears completely focused on the plastic that doesn't seem to want to budge.  
  
"Hey, leave that, come on. Leave that a sec," John says when Sherlock starts to frown. John leans down, twisting to insert himself into Sherlock's field of vision. He waits until Sherlock leaves off the lubricant and looks at John. The frown is still in place.  
  
"That's better," John says. "Now. I want to be together with you, like this." He stretches his neck up to kiss Sherlock, but it doesn't remove Sherlock's tension. John doesn't give up. "I want to find out what you like," he says between kisses, "and I want to share it with you." He shifts his weight and pushes against Sherlock until Sherlock drops down onto his back and John is now leaning over him. John sweeps the condoms and lubricant out of the way, toward the headboard. He stares down at Sherlock. "You're incredible."  
  
"You've already said that."  
  
John's eyes crinkle with amusement. "Bears repeating."  
  
"I'm not sure you fully understand what the word means. I'm entirely believable. I'm hardly a figment of your imagination."  
  
"Sometimes I wonder," John says softly. "God." He lays one hand alongside Sherlock's cheek so that his thumb brushes Sherlock's mouth.  
  
As if on auto-pilot, Sherlock's tongue peeks out and flicks against the thumb. John moves his thumb out of the way just enough to make room for his own tongue on Sherlock's lips, nothing more than gentle touches and licks with the tip. Now it's Sherlock's turn to stretch and strain for more, and John's doesn't withhold it, lowering himself to rest half on top of Sherlock so they can comfortably reach each other. Sherlock grasps the back of John's thigh and pulls his leg up so it's bent across Sherlock's legs. John's knee brushes Sherlock's crotch, and as soon as he realises that fact, John snugs in closer and gently rocks against him. When Sherlock's hips start to gravitate upward, seeking something, seeking more, John reaches blindly above them and scrabbles at the pump until some of the liquid comes out. Without leaving off Sherlock's mouth, he reaches down and puts his hand inside his own pants.  
  
"Come on, come here, like you were before," John says once he's ready and has pushed his underwear down as far as he can get it one-handed. He rolls onto his back and tugs at Sherlock's arm.  
  
Sherlock rolls onto him compliantly, following John's lips more than anything else. As soon as he settles in, though, John's slick skin against his heat, he freezes with his lips resting on John's and a sound between a grunt and a sigh escapes into John's mouth.  
  
"This okay?" John asks.  
  
"Incredible," Sherlock manages after some tentative little thrusts that quickly become more vigorous.  
  
"Are you sure you know what that-" But John's teasing question is cut off by Sherlock taking feverish possession of his mouth.  
  
John wraps his arms around Sherlock's body and he presses firm, steady hands against the undulating muscles of Sherlock's back. Sherlock's arms are braced on the mattress on either side of John, where his hands flex and clench in an odd syncopated rhythm with the increasingly erratic motions of his hips. Their kisses are little more than breathless smears and both of them are making sounds that start somewhere deeper than their throats. They whisper each other's names, as if inventing a new, secret language, and when first one climaxes, then the other, the echo reverberates between their hearts.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

  
The next morning, Tristram and Emily are already awake and watching cartoons in another language - the curtains drawn firmly shut - when Doctor Watson comes out of the bedroom. The only English channels are all full of news, and anyway it's not necessary to understand what the animated figures are saying in order to follow the story. Not that Tristram is really paying attention. He's mostly anxious to find out whether Father ever came back last night. He assumes so, since the bedroom door was closed when he woke up, and Doctor Watson confirms it when he pauses on his way to the bathroom and tells them Father's still sleeping.  
  
Tristram has no reason to doubt it, but when Doctor Watson goes into the bathroom, Tristram gets up and peeks past the half-open bedroom door. Indeed, the back of Father's head, his shoulders, and one bare leg are visible sticking out from the pile of twisted bedclothes. Tristram can't see his face, but he's not moving, other than the very slight rise and fall of his back as he breathes. Tristram watches him for a good, long while, but the rhythm never falters. If he's faking, he's very convincing.  
  
Tristram wonders if his father was happy sleeping next to Doctor Watson; if that's the reason he's still sleeping, because he's so warm and comfortable and right where he wants to be. Tristram remembers the lines from that poem he had to read for his language arts homework:  
  
 _And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,  
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. _  
  
Tristram is somewhat nonplussed to find, all of a sudden, that he very much wants for it to be true. Some of the aspects of Father and Doctor Watson's friendship have been difficult for Tristram to come to terms with, to be sure, but he can't deny that there have been some other, very good things too. Things like playing in the snow and reading together. More smiles and laughter. Father's promise on his cast and curling up on his lap in the train. And of course riding the toboggan yesterday, firmly ensconced between Father's legs, with his chest solidly at Tristram's back. Those are all things he never had - never would even have dreamt of - before the Watsons came into their lives.  
  
Tristram was afraid that Father's friendship with Doctor Watson would mean less time and attention for Tristram, but it's been the exact opposite so far. Tristram can't remember the last time he and Father did so much together in such a concentrated period of time. It's true that they're on holiday and Father hasn't needed to hare off after any suspects or spend long hours at the morgue, but even when they were back in London, even with the case going on with all the body parts and Mister Tonga, Father paid at least as much attention to Tristram as before. It's turning out that Doctor Watson's place in Father's life isn't being carved out of Tristram's, but out of those hours when Tristram's asleep or at school, or when Father's doing case-related things and wouldn't be able to spend time with Tristram anyway.  
  
And then there are those times when it's just Tristram and Doctor Watson, when Emily's father talks to him, asks his opinion and listens hard. When he gives Tristram time to say what he wants to, even if it's nothing. It's like he can never give a wrong answer when he's talking to Doctor Watson. Or the things the three of them - himself, Doctor Watson, and Emily - have done without Father, like playing at the park or even doing homework. Tristram wouldn't want to give up any of that. Even if Doctor Watson sometimes wants to talk about things that Tristram would rather let lie.  
  
Tristram pulls the bedroom door most of the way shut again and goes back to where Emily is watching cartoons.  
  
Father still isn't up by the time Doctor Watson's showered and dressed, so the three of them go down to the breakfast room alone. It's busy, with people passing by their table so frequently that Tristram doesn't even notice at first that one of them has stopped beside him. He probably would have continued not noticing if it weren't for the way Doctor Watson suddenly goes all still and alert. The way he did at the airport when he was looking for Mister Tonga.  
  
Tristram isn't even looking at Emily's father when it happens; he's trying to get the little pat of butter unwrapped with one hand, and then it's as if someone has clapped a bell jar down over their table, and Tristram can't hear anything but Doctor Watson's silence. He freezes, becoming aware of a faint scent of perfume, floating so lightly on top of the smells of coffee and fresh bread and cocoa from their breakfast that he half fancies he's imagining it.  
  
He turns his head, and there's an expanse of smooth, buff-coloured knitwear beside him, wrapped around a slender woman's figure. He follows the sheath dress up to her heart-shaped face and dark hair twisted into a complicated style at the back of her head. She's staring down at them with a polite, aloof smile, but there's a tension in her arms and neck that tells Tristram she's nervous or at least keyed up.  
  
"Good morning. You must be John," the woman says to Emily's father. Her voice is rich and dark and reminds Tristram of Uncle Mycroft's assistant, especially the way there are things in there that she's not saying but means even more than the words. Something prickles in Tristram at the tone.  
  
"Doctor Watson," he corrects her, which makes Tristram look at him harder, because he sounds angry. Do they know each other? She called him by his first name, so that must mean she knows him, or at least has heard of him. Maybe Doctor Watson has heard of her too. Heard something he doesn't like.  
  
The woman smiles even more broadly, as if he's just confirmed something she wanted to know. She turns to Emily. "And your daughter. What a darling little girl," she coos. Something tells Tristram she doesn't really think Emily is darling, and he bristles. Perhaps he should be afraid, but he isn't. All he knows is that this woman's insulted Emily, somehow, and Doctor Watson didn't like her even before that. Tristram's beginning to think he doesn't like her much either.  
  
Emily, however, doesn't seem to pick up on any of the undertones. She smiles brightly at the woman and looks like she might say something, but just then Doctor Watson wads up his serviette, drops it on his plate, and pushes his chair back like he's going to get up. It's a threatening move, but the woman doesn't so much as flinch.  
  
"I don't know what you think you're-" Doctor Watson says, but the woman speaks over him.  
  
"And you're Tristram." The woman focuses abruptly on him. Everything else disappears. Her eyes are dark, so dark and deep and full, although of what Tristram's not sure. She stares at him, and Tristram can't look away, and then he sees it: her eyes are hungry. It's not like Father when he's gathering information, though. It's more like she's trying to absorb Tristram himself. There's also something more behind that look, trying to get out; again, not like Father, not like when he's trying to put thoughts directly into Tristram's brain. It's something desperate and wild, and it looks like she's having an awful struggle to keep it from breaking free. Fascination mixes with his initial dislike. He thinks he should possibly find her sudden interest in him alarming, but it isn't. It's like watching a chemical reaction under a fume hood: he feels oddly untouched by it all.  
  
"My God, you have his eyes," she says, as if it's a shock, as if that were a momentous fact of staggering importance. She's speaking to Tristram, and yet not. He has no idea who she means, anyway.  
  
All of a sudden, Doctor Watson is standing next to her. Tristram didn't even see him get up. Doctor Watson wraps a hand around her upper arm and says, "Excuse us," to no one in particular, his voice as hard and steely as his grip on her arm. Tristram can see her flesh bulging on either side of his fingers from the pressure, and he thinks distantly that it must hurt.  
  
The woman allows herself to be removed graciously and with a minimum of fuss; her only token protest is to turn her head toward the table, keeping Tristram in her sights until it becomes physically impossible.  
  
"Who's that?" Emily asks in a low voice as soon as the woman has looked away and they are out of earshot.  
  
"I don't know," Tristram says, only half paying attention to her. He's still watching her father and the woman. Doctor Watson leads her out of the breakfast room, but Tristram can still see them. Doctor Watson's let go of her, and they're talking. He's shaking his head and pointing at their table. The woman looks angry too now, her eyes and mouth hard and flat.  
  
"She knows you," Emily points out, adding unnecessarily, "She's pretty."  
  
Tristram realises with a start that she's right. Not the latter point, which is entirely irrelevant, but the first part. He was so distracted by her eyes and everything they were trying to say to - or hide from - him that he didn't notice: she knew his name. A prickly shiver runs down Tristram's back and lodges in his stomach, and this time it is fear. Not so much that he loses track of everything else, but still uncomfortable enough that he wants to go back upstairs and find his father. He doesn't, though. Doctor Watson is here with them, not letting them out of his sight. He won't let anything happen.  
  
Tristram turns to Emily. Her brown eyes are curious and guileless. "She knew your father and you too," he points out.  
  
Emily looks over at the woman and her father, thoughtful. "Maybe she works with my dad or something."  
  
It's possible, although it's a pretty fantastic coincidence that they'd run into each other here in Switzerland. Still: "Then how would she know me?" Tristram wonders.  
  
"I don't know," Emily says, frowning, as if she hadn't considered that point, and resumes eating her jam-smeared bread. "Maybe she works with _your_ dad."  
  
Or has something to do with a case. Maybe even the bogeyman. That would explain why Doctor Watson got angry and took her away from Emily and Tristram. But it wouldn't explain why he's letting the woman walk away now and coming back alone.  
  
"Who was that?" Emily asks as soon as Doctor Watson sits down again.  
  
He puts his elbows on the table and glances at Tristram before answering, "An old friend of Sherlock's."  
  
Tristram can tell there's more that Doctor Watson isn't saying, but that information alone is interesting enough. Because Father doesn't have friends. Well, he didn't until Doctor Watson. That doesn't mean he never did, of course, but she must be a very, very old friend in that case, from before Tristram was born.  
  
"How did she know who we were then?" Emily asks.  
  
"Sherlock ran into her last night. He must have mentioned being here with us." Doctor Watson takes his phone out. "At least I hope that's all it is," he mutters under his breath.  
  
Emily opens her mouth to ask another question, but her father cuts her off, rather sharply: "Look, I know you're curious, but it's not really my place to say anything more. Eat your breakfast." He starts jabbing at his phone. His jaw is stiff and his mouth is thin.  
  
Tristram turns to Emily, expecting to exchange a puzzled look, but she's staring down at her corn flakes.  
  
After they finish breakfast - wordlessly and quickly, as Doctor Watson is busy texting the whole time and neither Emily nor Tristram really feels like eating anything more - they go back up to their apartment.  
  
Father's sitting at the little table in the living room, doing something on his computer. He's dressed and his hair is damp, so he must have just finished showering. He barely glances at them when they come in.  
  
"Lunch today," he says, frowning at his computer.  
  
Doctor Watson goes over to stand behind Father so he can see the computer screen. He puts both hands on Father's shoulders. Emily joins them, leaning against her father. Tristram slides into the armchair on the other side of the table. He's not sure why, but it feels important that they all be together.  
  
"She get back to you already?" Doctor Watson says to Father.  
  
"I have her on now." Father types something.  
  
"I can take the kids out if you want to meet with her," Doctor Watson says.  
  
"She wants to see Tristram."  
  
Tristram reckons 'she' can only mean the woman from downstairs. But she already saw him. Why does she want to see him again? And what did she mean about his eyes?  
  
Doctor Watson looks over at Tristram. "She's already seen him," Doctor Watson says stubbornly, echoing Tristram's thoughts. Has he learned some trick from Father for seeing what someone's thinking?  
  
"If I don't agree to this, she'll find some other way," Father says. "I'd like it to be on my terms."  
  
"We can leave," Doctor Watson says flatly.  
  
"No." The answer is absolute. Tristram knows better than to try to argue with that tone, but apparently Doctor Watson doesn't. He lets go of Father and takes a step forward so he can look him in the face. Emily drifts away, over to Tristram, and hitches one hip up on the arm of his chair.  
  
"No, Sherlock..." Doctor Watson says as if Father is a small child who doesn't understand the language, "we can leave." He speaks slowly and pokes his index finger down hard on the table to underscore his point.  
  
Father takes his hands off the keyboard and leans back. "You think she won't follow?" he counters, as if it's obvious, which it probably is. Or would be, if Tristram had any clue what they were talking about.  
  
"She's had eight years to-" Doctor Watson presses his lips together and looks away.  
  
"Yes, and now she's decided the time has come," Father says testily.  
  
"I don't like it."  
  
"Imagine how much less you'd like it if you actually knew her."  
  
Doctor Watson purses his lips like he wants to laugh but doesn't. He shakes his head. "Not just that. This can't be a coincidence."  
  
"No. It's not," Father agrees. He leans forward to resume typing. "Which is why it's imperative that we go along with it."  
  
"Sherlock, you-" Doctor Watson looks at Emily and Tristram. It's clear he has something to say that he doesn't want them to hear. "Would you two please go into the bedroom? Just for a minute." His voice is tight and high, like it's an effort for him not to yell.  
  
"Where are you going?" Emily asks. Her voice is also tight, but with unhappiness.  
  
"We'll be right here," her father assures her, "but I'd like to discuss something with Sherlock in private."  
  
"Is it about the lady from breakfast?" Emily asks. Tristram already knows the answer to that before Doctor Watson says it.  
  
"Yes, now please, Emily. Tris, could you...?" Doctor Watson jerks his head toward the bedroom. He looks like he's about to lose his temper, although not, Tristram thinks, because of him and Emily.  
  
Tristram gets up and starts toward the bedroom. Halfway there, he stops and asks Father, "Would you be with me?"  
  
"Where?" Father asks, still focused almost entirely on his computer.  
  
"If I have to see that lady again, would you go with me?"  
  
Now Father raises his head and meets his eyes, the way he does when he's going to say something he wants Tristram to absorb and know as deep inside as knowledge can go.  
  
"Yes," he says. "I won't let anything happen to you."  
  
Tristram knows that's a promise. Just like he promised he'd track down the man who shot him, and he did. Mister Tonga's in jail now and won't ever be coming after them again. Tristram knows Father will protect him, just like he did at the airport. He made himself a target instead of Doctor Watson, Tristram, and Emily. Tristram has understood that now. Somehow, Father knew that Mister Tonga wouldn't shoot him. It's not clear how he knew that, but he did, and he was right. He'll be right this time too. He won't let the woman with the wild eyes and the words that mean more - or perhaps less - than she says, hurt him.  
  
"Then I don't mind going," Tristram announces.  
  
Father almost smiles. "Good. That will certainly make things easier."  
  
Tristram turns around and walks into the bedroom, his back a little straighter, with Emily right behind him.  
  
Tristram starts to close the door behind them, but Emily grabs the handle before it falls all the way shut and whispers, "Leave it open a bit so we can hear."  
  
She's not expecting him to resist, so she doesn't hold on very hard, and he's easily able to push the door shut the rest of the way. It makes a bit more noise than he intended, but on the other hand that means Father and Doctor Watson will certainly have heard it close and know they can talk without being overheard.  
  
"Hey!" she protests, looking at him in surprise.  
  
"We're not supposed to listen," he says, even though she knows that already.  
  
"So?" She presses one ear to the door.  
  
"I don't know, I just don't think we should listen." He doesn't know how else to explain it. He's listened in on conversations lots of times, both pretending to be asleep or actually eavesdropping on the stairs or behind cracked doors. He's gained some useful information that way, too, but this is the first time Doctor Watson specifically asked them to leave so that he and Father could talk in private, and somehow, Tristram knows that Doctor Watson trusts them - trusts _Tristram_ \- to follow that request. Listening in now would feel like betraying that trust. There's no concrete reason, though, no repercussions to be feared. Nothing that would convince practical-minded Emily.  
  
Tristram sits down on the end of the bed. "They're probably just kissing anyway," he says lightly, as if it doesn't matter to him what they're doing - or what they're talking about. He thinks it should be a good way to distract Emily, though, and he's right.  
  
She grins and steps away from the door. "Yeah. Did you tell your dad that it was okay?"  
  
Tristram hums an affirmation. He did tell him, back before everything with Mister Tonga happened. He didn't quite mean it then, but he said it because he didn't want his father to be unhappy because of him. Now he finds he actually means it. Or would mean it, if he said it to his father now. Not that he particularly wants to see Father and Doctor Watson doing that - he actively avoids thinking about those pictures from the photo machine - but he really, truly doesn't mind that Doctor Watson and his father are very good friends now. Maybe even boyfriends.  
  
Emily is standing near the head of the bed. "What's this?" she says curiously. The edge of something shiny and purple is sticking out from under one of the pillows. She slides it the rest of the way out. It's a strip of sealed foil packets, a little smaller than the ones individually sealed disinfectant wipes come in. Emily peers at the writing.  
  
"What's it say?" Tristram asks.  
  
Emily shrugs and hands the strip to him. "It's not in English."  
  
Tristram takes a look but doesn't understand it either. The only word he halfway recognises is 'präservativ', which must mean preservatives. Probably something to do with the ingredients of whatever's inside. It feels like a single, malleable piece of something. He tosses it onto one of the pillows lying askew near the head of the bed.  
  
"Probably sweets or gum," he surmises. Although Father never eats sweets or chews gum, and he's never seen Doctor Watson with them either. Maybe it's from the hotel. Tristram knows sometimes they leave a piece of chocolate on the pillow. Father solved a case because of that once.  
  
Emily bounces down onto the bed beside Tristram. "What do you want to do today?"  
  
Tristram wouldn't mind going to the toboggan run again, actually. He's not sure what else he can really do with his cast. But then he'd also thought he couldn't go tobogganing, and it turned out not to be a problem. Maybe they can put a plastic bag around his cast like they do when he bathes, and they could go to the waterpark he saw in the tourism magazine on the aeroplane. Some of the attractions there looked pretty fun.  
  
When he explains his idea to Emily, though, she allows that it does sound fun but she's still rather keen on going snowboarding.  
  
"We can go to a waterpark back home anytime," she argues, "but we might not ever get to come to the Alps again. Plus," she says, "you only need your legs and feet to go snowboarding."  
  
Tristram rather thinks arms are important too, for balance, and you need your hands to catch yourself if you fall - which he's certain to do. It probably wouldn't be very good if he landed on his injured hand, cast or no cast.  
  
They're still discussing the pros and cons when the door opens and Doctor Watson leans in.  
  
"You can come out now," he says. He smiles, but his jaw still looks tense.  
  
Emily and Tristram follow him back to the main room, where Tristram's father is standing at the counter by the wall, making himself tea. He glances at them over his shoulder as they come in, but doesn't turn around.  
  
Doctor Watson picks up the chair Father was sitting in before and swings it around to face Emily and Tristram then sits down, bracing his elbows on his knees.  
  
"All right, here's the deal," he says. His tone of voice says he doesn't want any trouble from them. "We're going to have a bit of a parent-child day today. Tris, you and your dad are going to spend the day together, and you and I," he says, turning to Emily, "are going to find something for just the two of us to do."  
  
Tristram doesn't think that sounds awful at all. He wonders why Doctor Watson is anxious about it.  
  
Emily, though, doesn't seem quite as gung-ho. Her eyebrows draw together. "Why can't we all go together?"  
  
"Tris and Sherlock have something special planned," her father explains, tilting his head toward Father, who is now leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, watching them.  
  
Tristram doesn't think that's entirely accurate, as he certainly didn't have a hand in the planning of whatever is going on at all. But he does like the idea of him and Father doing something special. He suspects it has something to do with the woman from breakfast, but that might be exciting as well. Like escaping from the hospital.  
  
"We'll get back together later on, though," Doctor Watson says, his expression softening at Emily's unhappy look. "I was thinking we could all go to that igloo restaurant for dinner, how about that?" he offers.  
  
Emily appears appeased. "Cool!" she says. Her eyes sparkle and she grins at Tristram. He remembers the pictures from the airplane magazine. It's a restaurant inside an actual igloo, with everything made of snow and ice. It did look very cool. In both senses of the word.  
  
"We could meet back here at five," Doctor Watson says. "I'll make reservations. That enough time, Sherlock?" He checks with Father.  
  
"I should think so."  
  
Doctor Watson looks pleased and sends Emily off to get dressed again in warm layers. Father says they won't be leaving until later, so Tristram sits on the pull-out bed and watches Emily run back and forth. Tristram wonders if the woman from breakfast has something to do with a case. She must do. If she really was an old friend of Father's, that friendship no longer seems to be extant. At least, Father certainly didn't seem very enthusiastic about meeting with her, based on the brief snippets of the conversation he and Doctor Watson had before they sent Emily and Tristram to the bedroom. On the other hand, if she's a witness - or even a suspect - in a case, Father would be a lot more eager to meet with her. So Tristram is kind of stumped.  
  
Doctor Watson is standing next to Father now by the counter, one hand on his shoulder and leaning in close while Father stirs sugar into his tea. It looks like Father's explaining something to Doctor Watson and Doctor Watson's listening intently - not upset or unhappy like he sometimes is when Father tells him his plans. In fact, he keeps nodding and murmuring things back with a serious, earnest expression, so he must agree. Unfortunately, their voices are too low for Tristram to hear. Plus, Emily keeps up a steady stream of chatter on topics such as who else in her class has been snowboarding, what a shame it is her phone doesn't have a camera, as she wants to take lots of pictures for Tristram, and where in the world her fuzzy blue socks are. The steady noise and flurry of motion she makes as she gets ready is actually starting to get to Tristram. Just when he thinks he's going to have to get up and go back into the bedroom to calm his head down, Doctor Watson and Father step away from the counter together.  
  
Father takes his teacup to the table and sets it down next to his computer.  
  
"Ready, Em?" Doctor Watson asks, rubbing his hands together.  
  
Emily stops where she is in the middle of the room. She has on what looks like every item of clothing she brought with her, including her outerwear. Tristram can see her hat and a pair of socks sticking out of the pockets of her jacket. Her cheeks are red and her hairline is slightly damp already. Her face falls suddenly. "I don't have a helmet!" she all but wails.  
  
"We'll hire everything," her father assures her. "Now come on, let's make time. I think there's a shuttle bus to the slopes leaving in a few minutes from downstairs." He goes over to where Father is standing by the table, tapping at his phone.  
  
"Keep in touch," Doctor Watson says. It sounds like a reminder.  
  
"Every hour," Father says without looking up, as if he's repeating something they've already agreed on.  
  
"Otherwise I will contact Mycroft." Tristram hears it for the threat it is, and apparently Father does too, judging by the scowl on his face. Doctor Watson touches Father's elbow and tilts his head so he's in Father's line of vision. "It's going to be fine."  
  
Father's frown drifts even further toward irritation. "You hardly need to reassure me."  
  
"No, God forbid." Doctor Watson almost looks like he's going to smile. "If you need anything at all-"  
  
"I'm going to handle this, John." Tristram can hear the tightness and defensiveness in that statement, although Father's voice isn't bristling with acid barbs the way it gets when he says something like that to Uncle Mycroft.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, you are," Doctor Watson says. He sounds surprisingly gentle. "I know. I just..." He steps in close to Father, puts one hand on the back of his neck and pulls him down for a firm, quick kiss. Father lets himself be distracted from his phone for it. When their faces separate, Doctor Watson keeps his hand on Father's neck and looks really hard into his eyes. "You know," he says.  
  
Father puts his hand up on Doctor Watson's elbow and stares right back. His eyes are really big. It looks like he didn't might not have known whatever it is. Tristram can see his throat move as he swallows. Eventually, he nods once.  
  
Doctor Watson smiles. It's a small smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkle and his face looks like the sun. He steps away from Father and turns to Tristram. He keeps smiling, but something seems to fall away from it. It's still a nice smile, however, and it makes Tristram feel good.  
  
"We'll see you tonight, Tris," he says.  
  
"Wish me to break a leg!" Emily calls to him with a big smile from where she's sweating in her pile of winter clothing.  
  
"No, God no!" Doctor Watson protests quickly. "That's for the theatre, not winter sports."  
  
"Have fun," Tristram wishes her instead.  
  
"You too!" She darts over to him and squeezes him with her puffy arms, and then she and her father are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem quoted is _Sea Fever_ by John Masefield.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

  
It's a brilliant day when they finally get outside, wintry and cold enough for Tristram to see his breath, but sunny. The sky is a bright, perfect blue and there are mountains everywhere! Tristram saw them yesterday, of course, but with the low-hanging clouds and the fog they seemed more like big rocks. Now he can see their tops, sharp and white, making the sky look even bluer and closer where they meet.  
  
They walk to the train station, where Father buys Tristram a bar of chocolate that's shaped like a little mountain range, and then they get into a big yellow bus. Tristram doesn't ask where they're going, and his father doesn't tell him. He seems distracted, his gaze distant and unfocused, and he has that line between his eyes that he gets when he's thinking hard. Maybe they really are on a case, which is an exciting thought. Father's never taken Tristram along on an actual case before! Or at least, not intentionally, to Tristram's knowledge.  
  
The only indication of their destination comes when Father points out the bus window at something glinting high up on the side of one of the mountains and tells him that's where they're going. It's a bit hard to make out at this distance, but it looks like some sort of castle or fortress, which seems interesting enough. Tristram assumes they're going to take a cable car like they did yesterday, but the bus drops them off at a regular train station. It seems to be a popular destination as there are people everywhere. Hikers, skiers, couples, families, school groups - Tristram gets a guilty twinge in his stomach at the reminder that he's actually supposed to be in school right now.  
  
Tristram unpacks his chocolate bar once they're in the train. He puts two of the little triangles of chocolate in his mouth before he figures out there are bits in it. They seem crunchy at first, but they turn gummy as he chews and stick all over his teeth. He wraps the rest of the chocolate bar up and puts it back in his pocket. Maybe Emily will like it. He spends much of the rest of the trip up the mountain digging the caramel or nougat or whatever it is out of his molars.  
  
As the train winds its way up the mountain - the zig-zags are called switchbacks, Father informs him - Tristram feels like they're once again crossing over into another world. The white of the snow literally sparkles, as if it's made of diamonds. In the distance, wisps of cloud curl around the peaks like one of Mrs Hudson's good silk scarves caught on a mammoth version of the chocolate in his pocket. Whereas yesterday's foggy, snow-covered mountaintop where they had the snowball fight and rode on toboggans was like a dream of fluff and clouds, this is a hard-focused, jagged place of magic and danger. The association is solidified in Tristram's mind when they come around one last curve and are confronted with a huge grey castle complete with silver turrets gleaming in the unfiltered sunlight. He half expects to see Quidditch rings rising from the field beside it, or robed figures floating over it on broomsticks.  
  
The building, it turns out, is not a castle at all, magical or otherwise. It's a hotel, and the turrets are the domes of an astronomical observatory. Which is, admittedly, an odd thing for a hotel to have, but Father says it's because the conditions for astronomical observation are better here than down in the valley. The air is cleaner and thinner, the moisture content is lower, and there's less light pollution. Which still doesn't explain why they built the observatory on top of a hotel, but Tristram supposes perhaps it was just convenient that there was already a building here. There are certainly no other structures in sight.  
  
Tristram asks if they can go see what's inside the silver hemispheres, but Father says they're only open at night, when it gets dark and the stars come out. That makes sense, even if it is a bit disappointing.  
  
They wander up toward the hotel with the rest of the tourists, but rather than go into the building or take a seat at one of the tables set up outside, Father leads Tristram to the far end of the stone terrace, which ends abruptly in a steep drop. There's a thin railing for protection, but it would be all too easy to slip through the bars and end up on the rocky slope below.  
  
Father hunches forward and puts his elbows on the railing overlooking the valley. Tristram stands next to him and does the same, only he has to lift his arms up to get them onto the railing. The position pulls at his cast and makes something rub uncomfortably against his skin. He lowers his arms again and braces his upper chest against the railing instead. There's a stiff breeze blowing, so Tristram hunches into his jacket and buries his chin in his scarf. The mountains on the other side across the valley look very small. Tristram imagines they're at least as big as the one they're on, though, and there are about a dozen in a panorama all the way around the horizon. And this is just one valley, one small part of a very small country. So small its name doesn't even fit inside it on the map that hangs on the wall in his classroom at school. Tristram begins to get an inkling of what the phrase 'the whole wide world' might mean.  
  
"You asked me something the other night, about John," Father says into the wind. His eyes are narrowed, perhaps against the sunlight reflecting off all the whiteness around them. It's so bright that Tristram's eyes are watering at the corners. Many of the other people on the terrace are wearing sunglasses. Tristram didn't think to pack any. He never would have figured he'd need sunglasses in winter.  
  
Tristram tries to remember what he asked his father about. He didn't talk to him last night at all because Father went out when Doctor Watson was putting them to bed. The night before, when Father stayed in the living room with him, Tristram asked about what they were doing here. Father suggested it might have something to do with a case. And then at the very end, Tristram recalls now, he asked whether Doctor Watson was Father's boyfriend. Father didn't give him an answer then.  
  
"I dismissed the question," Father goes on, "partly because I didn't think it relevant, but more to the point, I didn't want to consider the answer." So, yes. It was the boyfriend question. Tristram squirms a bit. It's one thing to have the question slip out in the quiet, dark moments just before falling asleep, when his brain was already starting to wander down unfamiliar and possibly treacherous paths, but quite another to have the issue addressed head on in the glaring light of day. Even if this is a place half removed from reality.  
  
"I've been on my own for so long," Father says quietly, almost as if he's speaking to himself. "My whole life, really."  
  
"You haven't," Tristram can't help but point out. He doesn't want to contradict his father, but it seems a truly egregious oversight. "You've had me."  
  
Father turns to him and tilts his head in acknowledgment. His eyes do that almost-smile thing that's just for Tristram. "Yes, I've had you. I didn't mean it that way. It's different. I was still on my own with you. Mrs Hudson was there to help, of course, but all the decisions, all the responsibilities." He looks out at the mountains again. "It was actually quite frightening. I sometimes wonder how you're alive today to tell the tale." He frowns a little at the last words.  
  
"Uncle Mycroft helped," Tristram suggests.  
  
"He helped a _little_ ," Father corrects him, giving him a stern look. "Much less than he'd like you to believe, I think."  
  
There's a bitterness there that Tristram can't miss. He still wonders what ever happened to make his father dislike his uncle so.  
  
"But the point is that something's happened that's made me think perhaps I don't want to be alone anymore." Father looks down at his hands where he has them crossed on the far side of the railing.  
  
"Doctor Watson," Tristram guesses. Well, it's not really a guess.  
  
Father nods. "Yes."  
  
Tristram's heart is beating very fast. He knows he has to ask the next question. He also knows the answer already, but it's important. He's not sure why, but it's important that it be said. "So is he... like, your boyfriend?" He holds his breath.  
  
Father exhales as if he were the one holding his breath; maybe he was. Tristram might be mistaken, but it sounds a little shaky. "Yes, I suppose he is." Father's mouth quirks up in an almost-smile. Like he thinks he's supposed to smile at this point, but doesn't quite feel it.  
  
Tristram lets that thought settle for a moment. It's not really a shock. He's had a while to get used to the idea by now. Father has a boyfriend. It somehow doesn't want to fit into the image he has of his father, even though he knows it's undeniably true. It's not just that, though. It's as if his entire world is re-settling around him, as if everything is different now even though, looked at logically, nothing is. Unless...  
  
"Are he and Emily going to live with us?" Tristram expresses his sudden suspicion. His voice sounds small. He feels small, and not just because of the enormous pieces of raw earth and rock crowding around them. He liked having Emily at their flat for the weekend, to visit, but sharing his room with her permanently is something else. It's not that big a room to start with. With the second bed in there, it's already pretty crowded. And she'll want to bring all of her things too. He thinks of her room at her aunts' house, filled with books and dolls and art supplies and games. Where will it all go?  
  
"That's jumping the gun a bit," Father answers him. "It may end up not working out. I certainly have no idea what I'm doing. It's more likely I'll do something unforgivably stupid and it will be just the two of us again." Father looks down at Tristram with a wry twist to his mouth.  
  
Tristram swallows past the queasy lump in his throat. His father really wants this. Possibly more than he wants an interesting murder. "I'll help you," he says, finding that he actually means it once the words are out. "If you want. Emily too. She wants you and Doctor Watson to get along. She says you make him happy."  
  
"Does she?" Father seems genuinely surprised and touched, and that goes a long way toward smoothing out the unsettled feeling in Tristram's stomach.  
  
Tristram nods. "I think... he makes you happy too."  
  
"Yes. He does." Father smiles again, and this time it's for real. "Not that I was unhappy before. But he makes things... better."  
  
Tristram thinks again of all the things he thought of that morning: playing and laughing and bedtime and all the rest. "Yeah," he agrees, and has to smile too.  
  
They look out at the mountains again, and Tristram feels as if a great weight has been lifted from his heart. Father is happy, he's happy, they both have a special friend, and there's nothing here to spoil their holiday. Absolutely everything is right in the world.  
  
And then Father speaks again. "You know the reason why it's always just been you and I," he says, looking down at his hands again.  
  
"Because you didn't meet Doctor Watson yet?" Tristram guesses. He thought they were done talking about that stuff, but apparently not.  
  
Father smiles, a little. "No, not that. I mean why you've grown up with only one parent."  
  
"Because my mother left right after I was born," Tristram says matter-of-factly. Uncle Mycroft told him that a long time ago. Tristram hadn't even asked. He just said it while they sat next to each other on the piano bench one afternoon at his house. Uncle Mycroft was playing the Moonlight Sonata at the time, and he didn't even stop. Just kept calmly moving his fingers over the keys as he told Tristram about his mother deciding he was better off with his father and bowing out of the picture. Those were Uncle Mycroft's words: 'She bowed out of the picture.' Tristram always imagined a woman whose face he couldn't see standing on a stage and bowing at the waist as the spotlight went out.  
  
"Yes, that's right," Father agrees. "Her name was Godfreya Norton." He says it slowly, now peering at the mountains. He sounds a little unsure about it, as if it's something he almost forgot.  
  
This is the first time Tristram has ever heard her name. Uncle Mycroft neglected to mention it, for some reason, and Tristram was never actually curious enough to ask. Or perhaps she never needed a designation in his mental index other than 'my mother'. He doesn't think of Father as 'Sherlock Holmes' either. But Father's just said her name 'was' Godfreya Norton. He gets a funny feeling.  
  
"Is she dead?" he asks. He'd always assumed she was alive somewhere - when he'd thought of her at all, which was rarely. He feels oddly stricken at the thought that she might be dead, which is stupid because it doesn't matter one whit.  
  
But Father corrects the impression right away. "No," he says. "She's changed her name though. She goes by Irene now. Irene Adler. And she'd um..." Father pinches his eyes and lips together like he's got something sour in his mouth, which makes him look startlingly like Uncle Mycroft for a moment. Then his features smooth out again and he tells the mountains, "She wants to meet you."  
  
Tristram's not sure what that means at first. It takes him a while to match up 'she' with 'Irene/Godfreya', and that in turn with 'mother'. His mother. His mother is alive and wants to meet him.  
  
"In fact," Father continues, unaware of the effect his words have had on Tristram, "I believe she has already, after a fashion. John said she stopped by your table at breakfast this morning."  
  
Tristram is still grappling with 'she wants to meet you'. Still processing that that means his mother is a real, three-dimensional person who exists outside of the dark, hunched-over figure labelled 'mother' winking out of the spotlight. But now he has an actual face and body to map onto that image: the woman in the beige-coloured dress. The one Doctor Watson grabbed and dragged away from their table. The one who stared and stared at Tristram.  
  
"She said I had someone's eyes," Tristram recalls.  
  
"Mine, no doubt," Father says.  
  
Tristram sneaks a look at Father and catches him glancing sideways at Tristram. They both smile sheepishly but hold still long enough for a quick inspection. Tristram stares at his father's pale irises, nearly colourless in the bright winter light reflecting off the snow. Is that really what Tristram's eyes look like? Not just the colour, but the intensity. The way they observe and absorb everything. The way they see all of Tristram's actions and intentions. The way they seem to bore right into and through him sometimes, burrowing into his brain and his heart. Is that what the woman - his mother - meant? Did she see that in Tristram's eyes too? Or did she just mean his eyes are the same indeterminate, cloudy grey as Father's?  
  
"Did she say anything else?" Father asks. It's not a casual question. Father doesn't do casual questions. It must be important. Tristram tries to remember.  
  
"She knew all of our names," Tristram reports. That had puzzled him.  
  
But Father dismisses it as unimportant. "Obviously she knows your name, and it wouldn't have been difficult to find out John and Emily's from the hotel records."  
  
That makes sense. Still, there was something a bit ... off, for want of a better word, about the entire incident. It had certainly seemed like she and Doctor Watson knew each other somehow, but that can't be true if she had to get Doctor Watson's name from the hotel records.  
  
"Does Doctor Watson know her?" Tristram asks.  
  
"No. That is, he'd never seen her before but he realised who she was as soon as she showed up this morning."  
  
Tristram frowns at that. How could Doctor Watson have known she was Tristram's mother? Tristram didn't even know.  
  
Tristram's thoughts must show on his face, because Father sighs in a put-upon way and says, "I ran into her last night and told John when I came back. You were already asleep. This was..." He shakes his head and straightens up away from the railing so he can face Tristram. "I suppose I expected her to show up again at some point, but I wasn't prepared for it to be now, and here. It is, though, and we simply have to make the best of it."  
  
"I don't think Doctor Watson likes her very much," Tristram ventures.  
  
Father smirks. "No. Although that may simply be due to the fact that we're not sure what she wants. It could be that she just wants to satisfy her curiosity regarding what became of half of her chromosomes, and then she'll flit off to her next adventure."  
  
Tristram hears the unspoken remainder of that thought quite clearly: or it could be something else. Something that makes even Father uneasy.  
  
"Does she have something to do with a case?" Tristram asks quietly.  
  
Father gives Tristram a long look. Like he's trying to figure out how much Tristram already knows. "I don't know," he finally answers slowly. "It may be. Which is why we are being careful. I want to be very clear on one thing, though," he says, his eyes taking on that deep, intense cast that mean the next statement is going to be very important: "You are in no danger whatsoever. Neither you, nor Emily, nor John. I may not know yet exactly what Irene hopes to gain here, but she doesn't pose any threat." His expression changes from insistent to playful. "Now come on, why don't we see if we can find a way up into the observatory?" Father grins in a way that tells Tristram they aren't actually supposed to be going up there. Tristram gets a little thrill at the thought.  
  
He grins and follows his father toward the building. He doesn't fail to notice, however, that Father left one person out of his enumeration of who wasn't in danger: himself.

&&&&&&

  
"That was so cool!" Emily practically falls through the door, banging it open in her enthusiasm.  
  
Tristram looks up from the table, where he's practising left-handed writing in one of the notebooks he brought along. He can almost get his name to look the way it does when he writes it with his right hand. Well, used to write it. The tilt is still a little off though.  
  
Emily's grinning from ear to bright red ear and her hair is what Mrs Hudson would call 'a bird's nest'. "I went down a black diamond all by myself and I only fell five times!" she announces.  
  
Behind her, her father comes in, unzipping his coat and chuckling at her.  
  
"- the last time, I did!" she insists. She flings herself onto her back on the couch bed. Tristram can smell the cold air from where he's sitting.  
  
"She was a holy terror," Doctor Watson announces, mostly to Father, who's leaning in the doorway to the bedroom with his arms crossed. He's been in there doing... something - Tristram's not sure what - since they got back about an hour ago.  
  
"I'm pretty sure I saw her life flash in front of my eyes at least twice," Doctor Watson says, but he sounds amused. He drops his coat over the back of one of the chairs and goes over to Father. "Hey," he says more softly and touches Father's elbow. "How'd it go?" Doctor Watson looks over at Tristram when he asks, but Tristram's not sure the question's meant for him.  
  
Anyway, Father answers it. "Fine," he says. He has kind of a half-frown on his face, though, which intrigues Tristram because as far as he could tell, the meeting with his mother did go fine.  
  
She showed up at the hotel restaurant, looking very fancy in a big fur coat, and they had lunch. She wanted to hear all about Tristram's school and what he liked to do and the places he liked to visit, and in return she told Tristram and Father all the places she'd been in the past eight years. There were a lot. She said that's why she had to leave Tristram with Father, because you couldn't drag a baby to places like Singapore and Dubai and New York. That certainly makes sense, even if Tristram hasn't been a baby for a very long time now. She never explained why she couldn't stay in London with him and Father. Tristram didn't ask.  
  
Father drops his arms and goes into the bedroom without saying anything more. Doctor Watson follows him.  
  
Emily twists her head so she can look toward the bedroom. The door's still open enough that they can hear their fathers' voices but they're too low to make out the words. Emily struggles up onto her elbows and turns back toward Tristram.  
  
"Hey," she says suddenly, her eyes wide. Her voice is a hoarse whisper, as if she doesn't want their fathers to hear her. "My dad said that lady we saw at breakfast was actually your _mother_!"  
  
Tristram nods. "That's where we went today. We had lunch with her at another hotel up in the mountains."  
  
"So, really... she's your mum? Like, really your mum?" Her eyes are open so far Tristram can see the whites all around.  
  
Tristram decides not to point out she's just asked the same question twice, instead answering simply, "Yeah."  
  
Emily scoots forward on the bed, as if by coming closer she'll be able to understand Tristram better. "Is she going to come live with you?"  
  
"I don't think so. She's a singer. She travels all over."  
  
"Is that where she's been the whole time?"  
  
Tristram fingers the edge of his cast with his good hand. It feels rough. He's supposed to be doing some stretching exercises for his hand. He hasn't been. "I guess," he mumbles. "Yeah."  
  
"Are she and your dad still married?"  
  
Tristram was told they weren't, but he realises he doesn't actually know. It seems like there's been a lot going on recently that he hasn't been told about. On the other hand, it also seems kind of ridiculous that his father and Irene would have been married all this time yet never lived together - never so much as been in the same country, actually, since Tristram was born, if Irene was telling the truth about her travels.  
  
"I don't know," he mutters uncomfortably. Because if Irene and his father are married, what does that mean for Doctor Watson?  
  
Emily seems to be thinking along the same lines. "Well if they are, they have to get divorced now," she says, as if the whole thing is settled.  
  
The thought gives Tristram some relief. He knows he's not supposed to feel that way. At his last school, his teacher read the class a book about a girl whose parents got divorced. It was full of statements about how she needn't feel bad about it, and how much her parents loved her, and all the fun things she got like special outings just with her dad and two bedrooms of her very own. With all those reassurances, it was pretty obvious that everyone expected her to be sad about her parents moving into separate flats. Tristram won't be sad at all if his mother and father get divorced (if they're married). Even without two bedrooms. It will be more like putting things back the way they were. The way they are, actually. But maybe Emily does have a point.  
  
"Maybe that's why she came back..." he says, half to himself. Tristram's not sure if there's a special divorce ceremony that both people have to attend, like a wedding in reverse. He imagines Irene walking backwards up a church aisle, the white dress she had on at breakfast turning black as she goes, until she fades into the shadows. Bowing out of the picture once again.  
  
(Tristram is supposed to call his mother 'Irene', he learned at lunch.  
  
'Hello,' he'd said politely, 'it's nice to meet you, Mother,' and held out his hand just the way Uncle Mycroft taught him. Even though it wasn't actually nice to meet her. More like incredibly weird. Like he imagines Harry Potter felt when he found out his parents were a witch and a wizard. Irene isn't a witch, though. As far as Tristram knows.  
  
Anyway, his mother made a face that looked like she wasn't sure whether to be insulted or amused - Uncle Mycroft's assistant is good at those faces too - and said, 'Oh darling, that makes me sound like I should be wearing a bouclé suit and hosting five o'clock tea. Call me Irene.'  
  
So he did.)  
  
"What's why she came back?" Emily asks, not having understood Tristram's previous statement.  
  
"I don't know," Tristram repeats, suddenly frustrated with the whole topic. He doesn't want to talk about Irene or divorce or why any of them are here. He scowls down at his notebook and scrapes his pen against the paper so hard it rips the page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bar of chocolate shaped like a mountain range is Toblerone, a Swiss brand. They really do have annoying sticky bits in them. Here's a picture if you're not familiar:
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> The hotel with the observatory is the Gornergrat Kulm. Here is the approach with the train:
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> And here is a closer view of the hotel with one of the observatory domes:
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> The observatory is called the [Stellarium](http://stellarium-gornergrat.ch/?lang=de). You can see more pictures on [their Facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/stellariumgornergrat/photos_stream).


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

  
The restaurant igloo is smaller than it looked in the pictures. It's still pretty neat, especially the blue and gold lights glowing through the snow walls in the dark. Their destination is actually an entire village of igloos arranged in a cluster on a snow-covered field a short distance away from the main restaurant, again at the top of a cable car line. Tristram is beginning to wonder if there's anything to do in Switzerland that doesn't involve getting to the top of a mountain first.  
  
When Father and Doctor Watson came out of the bedroom, Tristram was so out of sorts from Emily's pestering that he didn't even care to look for evidence of what they'd been doing. He knows it's not fair of him to be annoyed at Emily. He'd be curious too, if her mother showed up, as well as concerned about what that might mean for Father - and by extension, for himself. Not that her mother can come back, because she's dead. But just as a mental exercise, Tristram understands why Emily doesn't want to let the subject drop.  
  
The problem is, not even Father knows what Irene wants. She could be part of a case, he'd said; or she could just be passing through and thought it would be funny to see whatever became of the baby she left behind. Neither option is very appealing to Tristram. Part of him wants her to just go back to singing and travelling and let him and Father (and Doctor Watson, now, and Emily) go back to London and forget all about her. But a very, very small part of him doesn't want to lose track of her now that he knows she's real. A really tiny part. It's not like he wants to see her every day or anything. But if he just knew where she was at any given time, it would be kind of nice. Like the pickled monkey foetus at the Hunterian. There's a certain reassurance in knowing that it's always there with its little, scrunched-up yellow face, forever dreaming its funny monkey dreams of the hot, steamy jungle it never knew.  
  
It's certainly not a jungle up here in the dark mountain night. It's very cold, and white clouds plume out of everyone's mouths when they talk, like dragons' breath. The sky is punctured by lots and lots of tiny pricks of light. The observatory's probably open now. But, of course, that's on a different mountain altogether.  
  
When they get to the first igloo with the check-in desk, they find that the restaurant is actually a series of igloos connected by tunnels through the snow, each one serving as a kind of dining room with three or four tables. There are also separate igloos that can be rented overnight, to sleep in, but they're not going to do that.  
  
The igloos aren't heated - obviously, otherwise they would melt - but it's warmer inside than Tristram expected. Still, it's chilly enough that they keep their coats on. The tables are normal tables, made of metal and glass, but the seats are either benches carved out of snow or huge ice cubes piled up into stools. There are cushions to sit on, both for comfort and to stop the benches from melting where people have sat. Their table is small enough that there's only room for one person on each side, so Emily and Tristram sit on a snow bench curved around one corner, and Father and Doctor Watson perch on ice stools on the other two sides. It's cosy despite the chill of the surroundings.  
  
The walls have some kind of shields or coats of arms carved into them. For some reason, it makes Tristram think of Durmstrang, the magical school of the far north in the Harry Potter stories. Incongruously, there are huge bells - as big as Tristram's body - standing randomly around on blocks of ice. Doctor Watson says those are cowbells, but Tristram has trouble picturing any cow wearing a bell that large. There are no windows, and Tristram thinks the whole place could do with an air-out, as there's a distinct locker-room smell.  
  
There's no schnipo or sausages or poo-filled nuggets on the menu this time. There is only fondue. Father says that means 'melted', and sure enough, a short while later a steaming pot full of pale yellow melted cheese appears on their table. Tristram looks at the other tables, all with their steaming pots, and understands where the locker-room smell is from. The idea, Tristram quickly discovers, is to use a long fork to spear a cube of bread from the basket they are provided with, dip that into the cheese, and ferry the dripping morsel to one's mouth. It makes sense now, too, why the tables are so small - it's so that everyone can reach the cheese pot in the middle without having to stretch across someone else.  
  
Tristram isn't particularly enamoured of the taste - it's not awful, but it has a slightly bitter undertone to it that Doctor Watson says is from the kirsch, some kind of alcoholic drink, that's mixed in with the cheese. He assures Tristram and Emily that the temperature is high enough that all the actual alcohol's evaporated, leaving only the flavour behind. Tristram wishes the flavour had evaporated as well. Doctor Watson seems to like it though, enough that he orders some kirsch separately for Father and him to drink. It comes in tiny little doll-sized glasses that Emily coos over and Tristram thinks look frankly silly, but Father gamely picks his up and clinks it against Doctor Watson's, and after they each take a sip, they look at each other for a moment and break into giggles over nothing. Tristram grins too and decides the glasses' silliness is worth it.  
  
But the real fun is stretching the strands of cheese out of the pot as far as possible. Doctor Watson does some twisty thing with his wrist that makes the cheese on his bread separate neatly from the mass in the pot, but when Tristram tries it, it just makes his bread fall off. When he pulls his bread out slowly, though, the cheese forms long strings that keep coming and coming. It's like eating elastic, only it never contracts. It just keeps stretching further and further. Emily has the brilliant idea to stand on her seat to see if she can pull up a strand of cheese that's as long as she is. It ends up snapping at about the one-meter mark, and her father won't let her try again. Tristram presumes he's included in the edict.  
  
Father doesn't eat much, but he's fascinated by the long, trident-like forks they've all been equipped with, each one easily as long as Tristram's forearm.  
  
"How many ways do you think you could kill a man with one of these?" he asks Doctor Watson, holding his fork so he can sight down its length like the barrel of a gun.  
  
Doctor Watson sputters a little, but gamely considers the question. "I don't know... three? Stab them in the neck, in the eye, and between the ribs."  
  
"That's only one," Father scoffs. "You're using it the same way each time. Unimaginative. I've come up with six so far." He swivels to aim the fork at one of the other tables.  
  
"Any particular reason we're plotting the bloody demise of our fellow diners?" Doctor Watson asks mildly, fishing another one of Emily's bread chunks out of the cheese for her.  
  
"Three of the methods are virtually bloodless," Father informs him, as if affronted that Doctor Watson would have considered him so barbaric.  
  
Doctor Watson chuckles at that, and Father looks pleased with himself - or possibly pleased that he's made Doctor Watson laugh. Tristram likes the way Doctor Watson's whole body seems to join in when he laughs. It's not just his face creasing and opening up, it's the way even his ears perk up and his shoulders shake and the sound seems to bubble up from the bottom of his toes. Tristram sneaks a peek at Doctor Watson's feet once when he's laughing at something else Father's said, and catches them shuffling against the hard-packed snow as if they can't contain their merriment either.  
  
By the time the cheese in the pot is little more than a thick layer of goo at the bottom and all that's left in the bread basket are a few crumbs, Father and Doctor Watson have quieted, sharing confidential smiles and an occasional chuckle. They're leaning so close their shoulders are touching, talking about something that Tristram lost track of a while ago.  
  
The food sits heavily in his stomach, which conspires with the thick air and the steady, soothing drone of his father's and Doctor Watson's voices across the table to lull Tristram into a dozey, sated state. He hasn't thought about his mother all evening, and no one's mentioned her. He has the feeling they're not done with her yet, though. Or that she's not done with them.

  
&&&&&&

  
John slides into the bed. Sherlock is already there, on his side under the covers, wearing a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. "She said something to me this morning," John says. He sits up against the head of the bed and adjusts the cover over his legs.  
  
"She's a liar," Sherlock tells him simply, as if it were a casual fact.  
  
"You don't even know what she said."  
  
"It's not about what she may have told you. I'm simply telling you that is her character. She is a liar. Although she may also use the truth, when it suits her purposes. I presume she may well have done in this case, as it's equally damning."  
  
John looks down at Sherlock. "She told me Mycroft made her leave." There's a question in there somewhere.  
  
"Mycroft offered to pay her, but she left of her own accord." Sherlock rolls onto his back and angles one arm up behind his head.  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"My brother offered to pay her if she would have an abortion. She refused."  
  
John takes a moment to let that settle in. "Mycroft? He wanted her to have an abortion?"  
  
Sherlock shrugs. "It would have been the most pragmatic solution. Neither of us were in any position to raise a child. Not merely for lack of funds. Back then, I was... " He looks away, up at the ceiling. "I experimented. Pills, mostly. Whatever I could get my hands on. Godfreya ... Irene... that was an experiment too. I don't recall most of it." He closes his eyes, a slight crease between them, as if inwardly seeking the missing memory.  
  
"But, I mean, Tristram is-"  
  
"Oh yes, he's mine." Sherlock opens his eyes so he can glance sidelong at John. "You don't think Mycroft wouldn't have insisted on proof?"  
  
"But Jesus, to ask her to get rid of him- How can you stand to look him in the eye?"  
  
Sherlock looks up at the ceiling again, sounding resigned. "The worst part is, I can't entirely hate him for it. He may have even known what he was doing."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I think that, if he hadn't made the offer, she would really have done it. She never wanted to be a parent. She _did_ want to be difficult. I also think she wanted to use the pregnancy to gain some advantage or privilege. She never wanted to keep Tristram, but she hoped to get an even bigger payout once he was born. Not necessarily money. Influence or ... favours."  
  
"But she didn't?"  
  
Sherlock smiles sardonically. "Mycroft's too clever for that. He knew she was going to leave even without his name greasing her way. She should have bargained harder over the abortion."  
  
"You did not just say that."  
  
"John, I told you already," Sherlock says, fluttering with his fingers. "I'm too selfish for that."  
  
"God, so she... And she never tried to see him?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why now?"  
  
"Didn't you ask her?" Sherlock asks, looking at John with mild surprise.  
  
"Yes, but she just looked wounded and said something about maternal instinct." John's lips twitch, halfway to a grin.  
  
Sherlock snorts.  
  
John lets the grin break through. "That's what I thought too. But don't you wonder? Don't you think it might be important? It's a rather massive coincidence that she's here just when we are. And don't tell me Mycroft arranged it."  
  
"No, it wasn't Mycroft."  
  
John pounces on that admission, all amusement suddenly gone. "You know something. Damnit, Sherlock, you-"  
  
Sherlock turns onto his side again and puts his hand on John's knee under the cover to stop him. "John, let me have this." His voice is unusually soft. "Please. I do know something - a little, not much - but I promise, there's no danger for any of you."  
  
"Why can't you tell me, then?"  
  
Sherlock's hand clenches, too quickly, around John's knee. He relaxes it deliberately. "Because then it will all be over."  
  
John frowns, irritated. "What does that mean?"  
  
Sherlock studies John's face carefully, just a bit too long, before saying lightly, "Just that we'll have to get back to the pursuit of the people behind Tonga and Moran." He smiles and scoots himself closer so his chest is resting against John's leg. His hand disappears somewhere under the covers. "Let's enjoy the rest of our week. One week, and then we can get back to the business of tracking down that little gang."  
  
"And you think they're just going to sit back and wait while we have snowball fights and eat fondue?" It doesn't come out quite as scathing as it might have.  
  
"They won't touch us here," Sherlock says, as if he finds it tedious to keep going over it.  
  
John won't be put off just yet, though. "What about Irene? She's mixed up in this too," he insists.  
  
"It could just be a coincidence-"  
  
"Damnit, Sherlock! I'm not an idiot!" John explodes.  
  
They sit there staring each other down for several interminable moments. Sherlock is the first one to back down. "No," he says soberly. "You're not. Which is why I am pleading with you: let me have this. Let _us_ have this. It won't put us at any tactical disadvantage."  
  
"You swear you're going to tell me everything." It might have been intended to sound like a threat, but there's not much steam behind it.  
  
"Everything I know." It might be agreement, but it might also be a counteroffer.  
  
John groans and lets his head drop back against the wall with an audible thunk. "Remind me never to try and talk you down from something when you've got your hand on my dick."  
  
Sherlock chuckles and leans up to nip at John's lower lip.

  
&&&&&&

  
Emily's already asleep. They didn't read together tonight. Tristram would have liked to, but Doctor Watson said it was too late when they got back from the restaurant, and Emily didn't protest. Reading together is really Doctor Watson and Emily's thing anyway, so Tristram didn't say anything either. Even though it would have been nice to have Doctor Watson sit with them a little while. And Father too, off to the side but paying more attention than it seems like. Maybe tomorrow.  
  
Tristram scratches at his arm. Something's been bothering him there all day, like a tag on the back of a t-shirt rubbing against his skin. He supposes it's a good sign, like the itching on his back, indicating that it's healing. Doctor Watson and Father are still talking. He can't hear what they're saying through the closed door, but he can hear their voices, switching off between his father's lower register and Doctor Watson's slightly higher one. The tempo and volume remain controlled and even, so they're probably not arguing about anything. Just talking, like they were at the restaurant. Tristram wonders whether Father's ever talked as much as he has since he met Doctor Watson. Were all those words pent up inside him the whole time, waiting for someone to hear them? Or is he just finding them now, like pebbles laid out on a path that he never would have wandered down if he hadn't met Doctor Watson?  
  
When Tristram takes his hand away from his arm, it feels wet. Did he splash water on himself when he was getting ready for bed? He touches the outside of the cast, but it feels dry. He slides his fingers just inside the top of the cast, where he was scratching, and they come away wet again. Did he somehow get water inside the cast? It's not supposed to get wet. He gets out of bed and goes into the bathroom for a towel.  
  
As soon as he turns the light on in the bathroom, though, he realises it's not water. It's blood. Not a lot, but his fingers are all red and there's red smeared around his arm where the cast starts. His stomach swoops downward. He's supposed to be getting better, and somehow he doesn't think that blood under his cast is part of the healing process. He doesn't panic like he did when he ate the pie, though. Instead, he remembers what Doctor Watson did when Tristram got shot. First, he brought Tristram out to the hall where it was safe. Then he checked him all over to see where he was injured. Then he patched up what he could and called the ambulance for help. Tristram tries to follow those steps now.  
  
He's not in any danger of being hurt further, so there's no need to go anywhere else. He does need to find out where the blood is coming from, though. Tristram checks his hand at the bottom end of the cast, but there's no blood there, which is at least something. He takes some toilet paper and wipes his arm until he can see where the blood's coming from. He has a scratch or a cut right inside the cast, and he can feel now that there's a sharp edge there. That must have been what was irritating him all day. And either his constant scratching and rubbing or the exposed edge itself broke the skin. Tristram already feels calmer; more in control. It's good to have a plan to follow.  
  
The next thing Doctor Watson did, once he saw where Tristram was hurt, was to start treating him. At the same time, he called the ambulance because he couldn't take care of all of Tristram's injuries himself. Normally, Tristram would be able to take care of a minor cut like this on his own, but it's in a hard-to-reach place and he only has his left hand to work with. So he's going to need help too. Although obviously not an ambulance. Father and Doctor Watson are probably still awake.  
  
Tristram pads back out of the bathroom. Outside the closed bedroom door, he pauses. He knows he's supposed to knock. He can't hear anything now. He leans closer, turning his head sideways so his ear is facing the door. Not touching the door, just turned towards it. He still can't hear anything. Maybe they are asleep after all. It could probably wait until tomorrow. On the other hand, Doctor Watson and Father both told him it was okay to come get them if he were sick. He's not exactly sick, but it would be unfortunate if the scratch got worse or turned into an infection overnight. He lifts his left hand and knocks, once. It doesn't come out very loud. He doesn't want to wake Emily, but even more than that he doesn't want to walk in on something like the last time. He knocks again more firmly, three times.  
  
"Come in," Doctor Watson's voice says after a moment, muffled through the door.  
  
Tristram pushes down on the handle and opens the door partway. Not far enough that he can see in, but far enough that he doesn't have to shout to be heard.  
  
"Doctor Watson?" he says tentatively. He hears blankets rustling. A light is on in the room; probably one of the small lamps next to the bed, judging by the level of illumination.  
  
"Yeah, what is it, Tris?" Doctor Watson's voice asks patiently.  
  
"My arm's bleeding." He opens the door further, hoping that he's not about to see anything he doesn't want to. To his relief, Father and Doctor Watson are both lying half-reclined in the bed, each on his own side, and it looks like they both have all their clothes on. Well, they are both wearing t-shirts anyway. Their legs are under the covers. At Tristram's words, however, they both sit up and push the covers back. Doctor Watson, wearing black pants that leave his thick legs bare, is up first.  
  
"Let me see," he says briskly as he comes over to where Tristram is standing. Father is right behind him in his long, striped pyjama trousers.  
  
Tristram holds up his right arm as evidence. Doctor Watson cups one hand under the cast to support the arm and peers at the raw spot just inside the edge of the cast. Father leans in to have a look as well.  
  
"Yeah, looks like the padding's worn through," Doctor Watson says. "Not a problem." He gives Tristram a reassuring smile and puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder. "It's really good that you told us, though. That kind of thing can get nasty very quickly. Come on, let's go into the bathroom and get it sorted."  
  
Tristram is relieved. Not just because he didn't interrupt anything embarrassing this time, but also because it doesn't sound like there's anything seriously wrong with his arm. And because, even though it's not so serious, Doctor Watson said it was a good thing Tristram came right away, rather than waiting until tomorrow.  
  
Doctor Watson keeps his hand on Tristram's shoulder as they go over to the bathroom.  
  
"Thank you, John," Tristram hears Father say behind him. He stays in the bedroom, though.  
  
"It's fine," Doctor Watson says softly, mindful not to disturb Emily, who doesn't seem to have been wakened by the goings-on.  
  
Once in the bathroom, Doctor Watson guides Tristram to sit down on the toilet lid before getting out the travel bag with his medical supplies from under the sink. Tristram watches as he washes his hands thoroughly then takes some gauze, disinfectant, ointment, and tape from his bag.  
  
"You know, you don't have to call me Doctor Watson," he says quietly as he crouches down in front of Tristram. "I'm not actually your doctor. I mean, this..." He starts gently cleaning the torn skin with a piece of gauze dampened with disinfectant. "I want to do this for you. It's not just because of my job back home. Do you understand?"  
  
Tristram doesn't, not really. Doctor Watson is a doctor, so that's his name, just like Inspector Lestrade's name is like that because he's a police inspector, and Uncle Mycroft's name is like that because he's Tristram's uncle. But if Doctor Watson doesn't want him to call him that, he won't.  
  
"What should I call you then?" Tristram asks.  
  
"How about John?" He pauses and looks at Tristram. He almost appears to be nervous, the way his eyes dart back and forth on Tristram's face. "Not if it makes you uncomfortable. But I think we're friends, aren't we?" He really seems unsure.  
  
Tristram is unsure too. Doctor Watson is Father's friend, certainly. Father's boyfriend now, in fact, odd as that is. Does that mean he's automatically Tristram's friend, too? 'John'. It feels weird to think of him that way. He likes him, but he doesn't know if he'd really call him a friend. On the other hand, they play games and read books together, just like Tristram and Emily do. They've talked about things he'd never talk to anyone else about. They even have secrets together. Maybe he really is Tristram's friend too, not just Father's.  
  
Is that why he signed Tristram's cast with his first name? Tristram glances down at the cast, but Doctor Watson - John - is holding his arm so that only Emily's and Father's messages to him are visible. 'Love, Emily', it says. Father didn't write his name. But Tristram knows his handwriting, and he knows who it's from anyway.  
  
Doc- John ... That's going to take getting used to. _John_ turns his head to read what's on Tristram's cast, too, although certainly he's seen it before. "Angelo's," he says with a smile that seems to encourage Tristram to speak. "What's that?"  
  
"A restaurant," Tristram says. "Father and I go there sometimes."  
  
"Good food?" John asks.  
  
"He makes the best lasagne," Tristram informs him.  
  
"Your dad likes Angelo's lasagne?"  
  
"It's his favourite."  
  
"Then we'll all have to go together sometime. When we get back. Or," he says, straightening up as if something has just occurred to him, "is that what that means? When we get back, your dad's taking you to Angelo's?"  
  
"When I get better," Tristram clarifies. "When my hand and my back are better."  
  
John grins. "I think that's a fantastic idea. Just you and him, to celebrate."  
  
"You and Emily can come too." Father said he wanted them to. Well, he said John, but surely Emily was included.  
  
"The next time, we'd love to," John agrees. "But the first time, as soon as you get this off, that's just for you and your dad. Says so right here." John taps the cast.  
  
Tristram grins. "Okay." That sounds fair. A weight he wasn't even aware of carrying lifts from his heart. He'd worried about losing Angelo's as a special place just for him and Father, but maybe he can have both.  
  
John throws the used gauze away and takes out a tube of ointment. "So how about you? I never asked you what you like to be called. Emily always calls you Tris, so I assumed that was okay. But do you prefer Tristram?" he asks as he swabs some of the white cream around on Tristram's raw skin.  
  
No one ever called him anything other than 'Tristram' before Emily, and it would be weird if, say, Father or Mrs Hudson started calling him that. But he's used to Emily and D- John calling him 'Tris' now. It would be weird if they started using his full name. So he shakes his head and says, "No, Tris is fine. For you and Emily."  
  
John doesn't look up from what he's doing, but he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling sort of like Father's do. "That's good then. I like your name a lot. It's special, just like you."  
  
"My mother named me," Tristram informs him. "She was going to name me Drust, but Uncle Mycroft said not even she would be that spiteful."  
  
That does make John look at Tristram, the surprise clear on his face. "Your mother- Sorry, okay." He adjusts his expression to make it appear thoughtful instead. "Drust... That's not so bad. Although..." He leans in to speak confidentially. "I do like Tristram better, too." He sits back again and puts the ointment away. "Do you, er... have a middle name?" he asks, as if he's just making conversation, but Tristram can tell he's pretty curious.  
  
"Harbinger."  
  
John nods slowly, apparently taking a moment to digest that. "Okay. Your mother again?"  
  
Tristram nods.  
  
"Well. Mine's Hamish." He holds out his hand like he wants Tristram to shake it. "Nice to meet you, Tristram Harbinger."  
  
Tristram giggles and puts his hand in John's. "Nice to meet you, John Hamish."  
  
"So how was it today? Meeting your mother? You haven't really said anything about it."  
  
Tristram looks down at his cast where Doctor Watson's holding it. His thumb is covering up the mouse that Emily drew. It looks like the mouse's speech bubble is coming out of his thumb and saying, 'Get well soon!' Tristram shrugs. There isn't really anything to say. Plus, Father already told him.  
  
"It was fine," he repeats Father's answer.  
  
"Really?" John asks mildly as he takes out some more gauze and cuts it to size. "Just your average first time meeting your mother kind of thing?"  
  
Tristram has no additional data points to calculate an average from, but somehow he doesn't think that's exactly what John means.  
  
"Because for me - just me personally now," John goes on, "I think I might be pretty confused. I mean, one day it's just me and my dad, and the next day there's this whole other parent. I think I'd have a lot of questions." He delicately manipulates the gauze in under the cast to cover the cut.  
  
That's how Tristram feels too. He does have a lot of questions. But he knows that no one's going to answer them, so there's no point in asking.  
  
"It doesn't matter," Tristram mumbles.  
  
John stops what he's doing and bends his head down so he can look Tristram in the eye. "It definitely matters," he tells Tristram, almost fiercely. "My questions matter, and your questions matter. Even when there aren't any ready answers, they still matter."  
  
Tristram considers that. An experiment always begins with a question that doesn't have an obvious answer. Those are important questions. It's like his soil experiment. There's no one who can answer the question of what the pH level is of the soil in fifteen spots around London either. That's what his experiment is for. So maybe Tristram's questions surrounding Irene are like an experiment too. He just has to figure out the proper procedure for conducting it. He decides to ask one of his questions.  
  
"Do you know why she's here? Did she come here to find me?" Tristram asks.  
  
"I don't know. We don't know," Doctor Watson says, which is pretty much what Tristram expected. But then he adds, "But your dad and I won't let anything happen to you, okay? No one's going to hurt you again."  
  
That's the same thing his father told him. He said that Tristram and Emily were safe now, that there wasn't any danger for them. And that's fine and comforting and all, but it's not actually what Tristram is worried about. He's not sure what he's worried about, to be honest, but it's not getting hurt again. It's more about things changing, about the future being uncertain. Tristram's only just beginning to figure out where Doctor Watson and Emily fit into his and Father's lives, and adding Irene to the mix is like finding out someone's snuck in and added an unknown agent to his solution. She could end up being entirely nonreactive, but she could also turn out to be a catalyst for an unexpected reaction. Or the whole thing might explode quite spectacularly.  
  
But Doctor Watson can't know what will happen. No one can. So Tristram doesn't try to explain.  
  
Doctor Watson's finished with his arm. Tristram moves it experimentally. The cast doesn't chafe against his skin anymore. "Thanks for fixing it for me," Tristram says.  
  
"My pleasure," John says. He squeezes Tristram's shoulder and stands up so he can wash his hands again.  
  
John brings Tristram back to the living room and helps him get into bed without disturbing Emily.  
  
"Good night again," John whispers, smoothing his hand over Tristram's forehead once he's tucked under the cover with his cast resting carefully on top. There was a time when Tristram might have resented the gesture - he's not a little kid, after all - but now it feels nice. Not just the gentle touch itself of warm fingers on his skin, but the way it makes Tristram feel inside. Like John likes him and wants him to be comfortable, maybe even happy.  
  
"No yodeling," John admonishes with a twinkle in his eye.  
  
Tristram can't help but smile. The funny, hooting call Emily did the other night is on the tip of his tongue to repeat - softly, to be sure - but at the last second he holds it in after all. It feels like overstepping. "Okay," he whispers instead.  
  
Then John goes back into the bedroom and closes the door, leaving Tristram alone with Emily breathing gently beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons](http://www.rcseng.ac.uk/museums/hunterian) in London houses collections which are "a fascinating mix of human and animal anatomy and pathology specimens, wax teaching models, surgical and dental instruments as well as paintings, drawings and sculpture." ([Source](http://www.medicalmuseums.org/Royal-College-of-Surgeons-Hunterian-Museum/)) Think medical anomalies preserved in jars. I have no idea if there is actually a monkey foetus on display, but it would certainly fit in with the collection. As of July 2014 there was a special exhibit running on the theme of '[War, Art and Surgery](http://www.rcseng.ac.uk/museums/hunterian/war-art-and-surgery)', which I think would be right up John's alley.
> 
> The igloo restaurant is based on the '[Fondue-Iglu](http://www.fondue-iglu.ch/)' in Engstligenalp-Adelboden.
> 
> In Swiss German, there is a saying: FIGUGEGL (say 'fee-goo-gay-gull'), which stands for 'Fondü isch guet und git e gueti Luune' and means 'Fondue is good and makes you happy.'
> 
> The decorative cowbells are huge things that are worn for the procession when the cows are driven up the mountain for the summer and down the mountain for the winter.
> 
> This is what a fondue fork looks like:
> 
> They are really pretty lethal with those barbed prongs. It's hard to see the scale in that picture, but they are usually about 9-10 inches long. I shudder to think what Sherlock's six ways of killing a man with such a fork might be.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

  
Father comes down to breakfast with them the next morning. Tristram's a bit surprised, as his father hasn't shown any interest in the hotel breakfast room before. But then they find Irene waiting for them in the lobby, and the reason becomes clear. She greets Father with kisses on both cheeks. Emily and Doct- John, he corrects himself, remembering - both watch suspiciously, but Mrs Hudson kisses Father on the cheek too so Tristram reckons it's all right. It's only kisses on the mouth that mean something else, and Irene doesn't try that. Then she bends down to give Tristram a hug, and kisses him on the cheek too. She smells nice, and her brown dress is fuzzy like a tiger moth caterpillar. John shakes her hand, but his smile is stiff and his fingers twitch afterwards.  
  
Irene is just as complimentary to Emily as she was yesterday, and while Tristram still doesn't think she really means it, Emily is obviously flattered and pleased by the attention. Emily's not ready to entirely accept Irene at face value, however, and when she and Tristram come back to their table with their plates filled from the breakfast buffet, she finagles a seat beside Irene - Father's on her other side, and Tristram somehow ends up between Father and John - and proceeds to doggedly protect her interests.  
  
"Sherlock's my dad's boyfriend," she tells Irene in no uncertain terms.  
  
"So I'd gathered," Irene says dryly. Her eyes flicker to Father. There's a hint of amusement there, as if she's sharing an inside joke with him. His expression remains impassive.  
  
John's arm suddenly darts out to the basket in the middle of the table with individual portions of jams, marmalades, and chocolate spread. "See, Ems, they have strawberry," he says, holding up a miniature, foil-sealed plastic pot with, indeed, a picture of a strawberry on it. His expression looks a bit desperate.  
  
Emily doesn't even appear to hear him. "Are you and Sherlock getting divorced now?" she continues addressing Irene. It sounds more like a strong recommendation than a question.  
  
Irene's laugh tinkles brightly. "I like you," she tells Emily, and this time Tristram believes her. "No, we're not getting divorced." Emily's expression hardens, but before she can say anything, Irene leans forward, bracing her wrists on the edge of the table, to tell Emily in a conspiratorial tone, "We were never married." Then she smiles, sits back, and flicks her hand toward a waiter a couple of tables away.  
  
That answers that question, then, to Tristram's relief. But Emily's not satisfied.  
  
"Are you going to live with Sherlock and Tris now?" she presses.  
  
"Wouldn't that be cosy, the five of us?" Irene purrs.  
  
Tristram doesn't think that would be cosy at all. Unless by 'cosy' she means 'cramped'. There's not even really room for four of them, much less five. Where would Irene sleep? At this point, Tristram imagines there isn't any question that John would sleep in Father's room with Father, but even after his very short acquaintance with Irene, he can't picture her on the couch in the living room.  
  
"We don't live with them," John says without looking at Irene, spreading jam on his roll rather forcefully.  
  
Irene gives him a long, musing look. "No..." she says slowly, and looks like she's going to add something else when the waiter comes over.  
  
"I'll take my coffee here, Thomas," Irene says, pronouncing his name in a foreign way.  
  
"Very good, Miss Adler," the man agrees in quite good English before looking expectantly around at the rest of them.  
  
"Yeah, coffee would be great," John says. "And two hot chocolates." He points at Emily and Tristram.  
  
Father requests coffee as well, and barely waits for the waiter to move away before remarking, "All this time abroad and you never bothered to learn the language?"  
  
Irene smirks. "When there are so many more interesting things to do? Hardly. Besides, people do so enjoy practising their skills on me."  
  
John clears his throat like he's about to say something. He doesn't, though, and when Tristram looks at him, he has his eyes firmly on his plate, although his eyebrows are raised so high his whole forehead is wrinkled.  
  
Irene raises her eyebrows back at him. " _Language_ skills, Doctor Watson. Whatever are you thinking? Oh look, Sherlock, he blushes," she coos. John's eyes snap to her. There's something dangerous there, but Irene just titters.  
  
"So you are going to live with Sherlock and Tris?" Emily repeats, both obstinate and oblivious.  
  
Irene tears her eyes away from Emily's father and her face softens. "No, darling. Let me put your mind at ease. I have absolutely no intention of coming between your father and Sherlock. My only interest is in Tristram. My son." Tristram frowns internally at that. _Her son_. He is, of course, but somehow it's easier to think of her as his mother than of himself as her son. He's Father's son. No one else's.  
  
She reaches across Father to wrap her hand around Tristram's, tight, like a pair of handcuffs that have been fastened one notch too far. Tristram checks with Father. His eyes are fixed on Irene, pinning her, but she's not paying any attention to him. Tristram keeps very still.  
  
"It was a gift from fate that brought us together here," Irene says. Her voice is just at the right pitch to send prickles up Tristram's scalp. "And I don't intend to let it go to waste. But I also don't intend to disrupt your life. I have a contract to finish here, and after that ... maybe I'll go back to England, just for a little while, and we can get to know each other better. But only if you want it. And if you decide it's too soon, I'll make sure you always know where to find me, in case you ever change your mind."  
  
No one says anything. Not even Emily. The clinking of silverware against china from the other tables rings out unnaturally loud. Tristram, cautiously relieved, thinks it sounds like a good plan. Maybe it was just a coincidence that she was here after all.  
  
But then Father says, "That was a very pretty speech." Something in the way he says it gives Tristram the impression that it's not meant to be a compliment. Tristram's suddenly unsure about the truth value of anything Irene just said.  
  
She sits back, letting her hand slide away from Tristram's. He lets his breath out. He didn't even know he was holding it.  
  
"It's the truth, believe it or not." She sounds resigned, like she's used to people not believing her.  
  
"Would be nice, if so," John interjects crisply. "Tris's been through enough lately." His eyes flicker from Tristram to Sherlock and back to Irene. Then he takes a big bite out of his roll and starts chewing, his strong jaw working the bread.

&&&&&&

  
After breakfast, Father says he has some things to check on up in their room, so John takes Emily and Tristram out to explore the town a bit. Irene attaches herself to them. Tristram can tell John isn't happy about that at all, but he asks Tristram if it's all right with him, and it is, as long as John's there too, so John just gives Irene a tight little smile and a nod and they set out.  
  
Tristram really doesn't mind. In fact, he kind of appreciates the effort Irene's making to spend time with him in an unobtrusive way. He's not entirely sure why John still dislikes her so much. She's only ever been polite to him. To all of them, really. She said she wasn't going to try to take Father away from him. And that she wasn't going to move in with them, and that the only thing she wanted was to get to know Tristram better - and even that on Tristram's terms.  
  
It occurs to Tristram that Emily succeeded in getting each and every one of his questions regarding Irene answered in the space of a few minutes, and with a minimum of fuss. Maybe she should tackle Father's questions about Irene too. Although there's still some uncertainty - at least in Father's mind, which for Tristram is as good as empirical evidence - as to whether she was telling the truth. But for the time being, her answers are good enough for Tristram to be going on with.  
  
John starts off walking at a brisk pace, perhaps in an attempt to outstrip Irene in her high-heeled boots as she picks her way carefully through the streets. It's cold and icy, and even though the shopkeepers have swept the pavement in front of their shops, there are still treacherous patches with hard-packed clumps of snow frozen to the ground and deceptive stretches of slickness where meltwater has refrozen into an invisible sheen.  
  
Tristram hovers uncertainly in the middle ground between the two adults. He doesn't want to fall back too far behind John, but he thinks it prudent that he take extra care as well, even though his boots give him a good grip. It would be dumb if he slipped and fell on his injured hand. Or broke his other one too. Emily is apparently equally torn between sticking with her father and accompanying Tristram, with the result that the four of them end up strung out at relatively equal intervals along the length of an entire block. The distance between Tristram and John is unacceptably long. Although he can still see him, almost at the street corner, he's not sure John would hear him if he called out. Suddenly, Tristram feels uncomfortably exposed.  
  
Across the street is another row of shops. Up above the shop fronts on the ground floor, the first-floor windows with their railinged balconies bring to mind the upper gallery at the airport where Mister Tonga, the not-bodyguard, was watching them. Where he was - if Father is to be believed, which Tristram unequivocally does - just waiting for the signal to shoot John. No one's standing on any of the balconies now, but the windows...  
  
Someone catches up to Tristram and pulls even with him. It's a man wearing a black knit hat, just like Mister Tonga did that morning in Grandmother's stable. Tristram has a heart-stopping moment of being convinced it is Mister Tonga. Even once the man passes by without so much at glancing at Tristram and Tristram has seen his fair complexion - knows that he can't possibly be - _isn't_ \- Mister Tonga, Tristram's heart doesn't fall back into its normal rhythm.  
  
He is suddenly dizzy. Automatically, he reaches out for something to hold onto so he doesn't topple over. It turns out to be a rack of postcards on display outside a shop. It feels like his throat is closed off. He can't breathe. It's like the other morning, when Emily had the curtains open. But now it's not just the feeling of something being wrong; it's that there are people all around him, and he doesn't know which ones are the good guys and which are the bad guys. He wants to run, or hide, or just get away, but he's paralysed by the tightness in his chest. Someone grabs his arm. He cries out - a strangled sound, not nearly loud enough to alert anyone to his distress - and tries to jerk away, but the person's hold is too tight.  
  
"Here, you can hold onto me," he hears them say. It's Irene, which lessens his agitation somewhat but not entirely. "A country this rich, you'd think they could afford to salt the streets, but all they ever put down is this bloody grit," she grumbles.  
  
Tristram has no idea what she's talking about, but he can't take the time to think about it because he's still struggling to get air into his lungs. A moment later, Emily is standing in front of him, looking concerned.  
  
"Are you okay?" she asks.  
  
He sort of half nods and half shakes his head. It's beginning to be a bit embarrassing now. He wills his body to work the way it's supposed to, but he still can't get more than a teaspoonful of air in at a time before his windpipe closes up. It's probably not really that bad, but it feels like it.  
  
"Tris, breathe," Emily says. Her blue eyes are right in front of his face, not letting him see anything else. He's trying, he wants to say, but he can't spare the air.  
  
Emily takes a deep, slow breath, lifting her hands as if holding her lungs up, then lets it all out in a deliberate whoosh, miming pushing the air out. "Come on, do it with me," she encourages him, just like they did that morning in the hotel room. Tristram focuses on her face, on the flaring of her nostrils as she inhales and the O shape of her mouth as she exhales, and tries to join in.  
  
Tristram registers John arriving somewhere behind Emily. "What's going on?" he asks. He sounds ... not angry, exactly, but his voice is loud and demanding. Insistent.  
  
"I've no idea," Irene says helplessly. "He grabbed for the rack, and I thought he'd slipped."  
  
Emily takes another big breath, holds it long enough to say, "We have to help him breathe," then lets the air out again, all without relinquishing Tristram's gaze.  
  
Tristram feels Irene's hand let go of him, to be replaced by John's on his elbow. "We need somewhere he can sit down," John says, and Irene disappears. To Tristram, he says, "It's all right, Tris. You're doing great. Nice and slow, it'll come back."  
  
Tristram nods, concentrating hard on getting air in and out. He hears John's exaggerated breaths right next to him, matching Emily's pace, but he doesn't want to look away from Emily. It's almost like she's pulling the air in and out of his lungs with the force of her eyes.  
  
Then Irene's voice says, "You can bring him in here," and the hand on his elbow is gently pushing him, guiding him. Emily breaks eye contact and takes hold of his other elbow, and he finds himself being brought into a shop. The hands lead him around behind the counter and onto a stool. He has his eyes closed now, partly because that way he can remember Emily's eyes and keep focused on his breathing, and partly because he's utterly humiliated and doesn't want to know how many people are standing around watching him, witness to his breakdown.  
  
"Do he needs a doctor?" a woman's voice says, tremulous and heavily accented.  
  
"I'm a doctor, it's under control," Tristram hears John answer. "We just need a moment. Thank you," he adds, almost as an afterthought.  
  
Someone fumbles with his coat sleeve, and then there are warm, solid fingers pressing on Tristram's wrist. John's fingers, Tristram identifies them without even looking. He knows their touch by now, as often as they've tended to his wounds. He can also smell him, and that's another revelation to realise that his scent is almost as familiar to him now as Father's.  
  
Tristram feels something moving against his leg and then pressure on his knee. "Do you need me to breathe with you some more?" Emily's voice asks, small and thin.  
  
Tristram shakes his head and takes in a slow, controlled breath to show he can do it on his own now. It ends up being a bit more shuddery than he would have liked, but he's able to fill his lungs about halfway now, which is a great relief. He takes a couple more, then knowing he can't sit there with his eyes closed forever, blinks them open.  
  
Emily is kneeling on the floor next to him, one hand resting on his knee. Her anxious, serious expression turns into a smile when his eyes meet hers. "Is it better now?" she asks.  
  
"Yeah," Tristram says, only he has to cough a little when he says it, which makes him feel even more stupid. "I'm sorry," he mumbles and has to look away.  
  
"You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for," John says. He takes his hand away from Tristram's wrist but stays crouched down next to him. The stool is high enough that Tristram's looking down on him. "You reacted just right."  
  
Tristram doesn't really think he did anything; it was actually Emily who knew what to do. But he doesn't want to talk about it. All he wants to do now is leave. "Okay. We can go now," he says. He starts to stand up, but John gently pulls him back down.  
  
"I'd like it if you'd stay here for about five more minutes, okay? Just to give your blood pressure a chance to stabilise. But you could..." John gestures at his own head and neck and nods at Tristram. "If you feel warm, you could take off your hat and open your coat."  
  
Tristram does feel a bit flushed and sweaty, so he does as John suggests. Emily stands up and takes off her hat and unzips her coat too. She gives an exaggerated sigh of relief, grinning at Tristram. He smiles back shyly.  
  
Tristram only now wonders where Irene is. He looks around and sees her standing by a display of cuckoo clocks, talking to a young, thin woman with glasses. That must be the shop assistant, the one who let Tristram sit on her stool. He takes the opportunity to look around the rest of the shop. There are hats, banners, bags, t-shirts, scarves, mugs, magnets, and keychains, amongst many other items, crowded onto floor-to-ceiling shelves and display stands that leave almost no room to move through the shop. There are even cowbells, although none as large as the ones from the restaurant. Nearly half of the items seem to have the white cross on a red background that Tristram recognises by now as the Swiss flag. Much of the rest has cow motifs.  
  
"Do you want to tell us what happened out there?" John asks.  
  
Tristram doesn't, actually, but he pulls his attention back down to John's blue eyes next to him. They're the same colour as Emily's. Does Emily have her father's eyes, the same way Irene said that Tristram has Father's? Tristram takes in the lines around John's eyes, the short, sparse lashes and the thick, heavy skin beneath them. Somehow, he suspects Emily must have her mother's eyes. He wonders, fleetingly, what he got from Irene.  
  
John is still waiting for an answer. Tristram doesn't see what the point is of talking about it. It's over now. It was stupid - just like the thing with the curtain. He knows what John will say, anyway: the man out on the street wasn't Mister Tonga. Mister Tonga is in jail in England. And there wasn't anyone standing up behind any of those windows with a gun either. He knows all that. He knows it now, and he knew it when he was outside, too. That didn't stop his stupid heart from getting all scrambled and his stupid throat from cutting off his air supply.  
  
"It's okay, there wasn't anything there," Tristram finally says, so that John doesn't have to.  
  
"But you thought there was?" John prods.  
  
"There wasn't," Tristram repeats irritably.  
  
John doesn't let Tristram's tone fluster him. "All right, that's good," he replies evenly. "Although sometimes our instincts are smarter than we are, but if you're sure..."  
  
"I saw a man," Tristram admits, cringing internally at how stupid he's going to sound. But maybe he really does need to reassure John that there wasn't anyone there. "He reminded me of the man from the airport. But it wasn't him. The man I saw was white, and I know they caught him. Mister Tonga," he adds for clarification.  
  
"That's right, Tonga's in custody. I can check with your uncle to be sure-" John is already reaching for his phone, but Tristram cuts him off.  
  
"No, I know it wasn't him."  
  
"Okay." John presses his lips together and looks down, like he's trying to gather his thoughts. Then he looks back up at Tristram. "You know, Tris, these reactions you've been having, when you see something that reminds you of what happened ... that's perfectly normal. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I know it can be a bit scary when you can't catch your breath and your heart starts racing like that, but that's your body reacting to a very stressful situation in the only way it knows how. It happens to a lot of people."  
  
It does? Tristram's never seen anyone lose their breath before and have to be coached back into it. "Really?" he says dubiously.  
  
"Sure," John confirms. "Grown-ups too. Big men. Soldiers even."  
  
"Does it happen to you?"  
  
John grimaces a bit. "Not exactly like that. But do you remember, back when we first met, I had a problem with my leg?"  
  
Tristram does remember. Emily's father used to have a limp and walk with a cane. But he hasn't used it in months now. Tristram has wondered from time to time how his leg suddenly got better.  
  
"That was kind of the same thing," John explains. "My body was reacting to a big unhappiness inside me. There wasn't really anything wrong with my leg, just like there isn't really anything wrong with your heart or your lungs. But it hurt anyway, and there wasn't any medicine that could make it better."  
  
"How'd it get better then?" Maybe whatever fixed John's leg can also fix Tristram's heart and lungs.  
  
"Sherlock fixed it," Emily interjects brightly.  
  
John grins at her somewhat sheepishly, then at Tristram. "Yeah, he probably had something to do with it. Making me feel useful again. Being able to use my skills, feeling like I was important. Basically filling up a void I'd been carrying around with me. Honestly, I don't really know. But it worked, whatever it was."  
  
Tristram considers this and comes to the only conclusion he can see. "So... do I have to get a boyfriend?" He starts thinking of all the boys he knows, but he can't imagine wanting to kiss any of them. He can imagine even less any of them wanting to kiss him.  
  
John laughs. Quite loud, in fact. It's a nice sound and it makes Tristram feel better, even if the reason John's laughing is because he thinks Tristram said something silly that Tristram hadn't meant to be silly at all.  
  
"No, no," John assures him, "that's not what I'm saying. My leg was already better even before your dad and I got closer in that way. And you know, just because your dad's in a relationship with a man doesn't mean that you ever need to be. Maybe you'll find a girl you really like, or you might be happier on your own. It's all fine. But none of that's anything you need to be thinking about now. It doesn't have anything to do with this. And the reasons for your panic attacks are probably different than whatever was causing the pain in my leg."  
  
A panic attack? Is that what it's called when he can't breathe? That sounds pretty bad, actually. But, Tristram reminds himself, it happens to lots of people. Even soldiers. "What can I do then?" he asks.  
  
"Well, I think Mrs Daniels or another therapist might be able to help you with that," John suggests. "We already agreed I'd make an appointment for you when we get back, remember?"  
  
Yes, Tristram remembers. He hasn't thought about it since they had that conversation because he doesn't really want to go, but he knows John promised to do that, so he says, "Yeah."  
  
"You can go with me," Emily offers. She wanted him to go with her a couple of times before, but it never worked out.  
  
"I think Tristram should go on his own. At least the first time," John says. "But maybe we could go along and wait outside, like he did for you that time." And Father, Tristram adds silently. John said he'd make sure Father went along too. He hopes John hasn't forgot.  
  
"You have to try the magnets, they're really cool," Emily tells him. That's one of the things Mrs Daniels has in her room. Emily said she had lots of toys and games.  
  
"But what's she going to do to make it stop?" Tristram wants to know. That's all he really cares about. If he knows what it is that she does, he can do it now and won't have to go to any appointment at all.  
  
"Part of it's figuring out what sets off that reaction, and part of it's learning to deal with it when it does happen," John explains.  
  
Tristram's heart sinks a little. That sounds like it's probably going to happen again. But he wants to make it go away entirely, the way the pain in John's leg did.  
  
"But how do you make it stop?"he asks. He can't help his voice coming out plaintive, verging on whinging.  
  
"Just like you did," John says patiently. "You try to focus on your breathing and tell yourself there's no real danger, and eventually your logic gets through to your body."  
  
"No, I mean how do you make it not happen in the first place?" Tristram is becoming more and more anxious as well as frustrated at not being able to make his meaning clear. Father would understand, probably without Tristram even saying anything. But then Tristram doesn't think he could talk to Father about this.  
  
But it seems that John has finally understood. "That's what the therapist will help you figure out," he says. "The mind's a complicated thing, Tris. There's no magic word that can make everything go away. It takes time."  
  
That's not a very satisfactory answer at all, in Tristram's opinion. John's leg got better seemingly overnight. He didn't have to go through lots of meetings with a strange woman. But then he also said that the pain in his leg and Tristram's panic attacks weren't exactly the same thing. So they probably have to be fixed in different ways. Maybe there really isn't anything else Tristram can do other than what John said. It's a discouraging thought.  
  
"Can we look around the shop a bit before we go?" Emily asks, apparently having unilaterally decided the discussion is over, a sentiment which Tristram heartily supports.  
  
"Sure, I think Tris is good to get up now," John agrees. He stands up and brushes his trousers off. "We should probably buy something to thank the woman for letting us use her shop." He glances in the direction of the rack outside the door where the whole thing started. "I'll go pick up a couple of postcards for Harry and Clara. Why don't you two go see if you can't find some souvenir you'd like. Something small," he admonishes them, glancing over at Irene. "I'm not keen to take a whole cuckoo clock back with us."  
  
Tristram gets up too. He doesn't see why they can't just tell the woman 'thank you' for letting Tristram sit on her stool. Nor does he really understand why buying something is equivalent to the words. But Emily's eagerly moving toward the jumble in the sale room, so he goes with her.  
  
It doesn't take them long to find what they want. Emily picks out a snow globe with a parade of miniature cows in front of a backdrop of miniature mountains. The cows are wearing flowers on their horns and have huge (miniature) cowbells drooping from their necks. Tristram chooses a pocket knife, like Father's only smaller. It has a corkscrew and a bottle opener, but honestly Tristram doesn't think he'll have much use for either of those. A magnifying glass would be really nice. Father's pocket knife has a magnifying glass.  
  
Tristram has a very clear memory from when he was about three years old of Father taking out that pocket knife and flipping out the miniature magnifying glass to inspect a scratch on their door knocker and then concluding that Uncle Mycroft was up in their flat. He was, too. That's the first time Tristram consciously remembers being aware of his father's specific talent for taking seemingly unimportant facts and extrapolating meaningful - and sometimes startling - conclusions from them. And so it would just be nice if he also had a magnifying glass in his pocket knife. But he doesn't see any other models. Maybe he can ask the shop assistant.  
  
Tristram also picks up a packet of playing cards with funny, old-fashioned characters on them because he thinks Mrs Hudson might like them. He can pay John back when they get home. Or if John only lets him take one thing, he'll put back the knife. Father always lets him use his, when he doesn't need it.

&&&&&&

  
John's trying to decide between a postcard showing the Matterhorn - impressive, but they haven't actually been there - and one with a montage of several images of the local scenery, when Irene appears beside him.  
  
"You have a very astute little girl," she says, plucking a postcard of a sunny, wildflower-filled Alpine meadow from the rack.  
  
"What do you mean?" John returns stiffly.  
  
"With Tristram just now. She knew right away what was going on." Irene twirls the rack around slowly, perusing the selection.  
  
"Yeah, she saw it happen before and knew what to do," John says gruffly.  
  
"Does it happen to him often, these panic attacks?" Irene asks, keeping her tone casual.  
  
John haphazardly stuffs the postcard he's holding into a slot, using rather more force than necessary. "You do know what happened two weeks ago? Why his hand's in a cast?"  
  
Irene gives up the pretense of shopping for postcards and faces him. "Yes, I know," she says simply, but there's a heaviness about her eyes that belies her serene expression.  
  
"Did Sherlock also tell you what happened two months ago?" he challenges her, a tight, mocking smile threatening to break through.  
  
"No."  
  
"Then it's not my place to either. But that little boy-" John jabs his finger toward the interior of the shop.  
  
"You love him," Irene says suddenly, as if it's only just occurred to her.  
  
John flinches back, startled. "I... I care about what happens to him, yes. But he's not... I mean, I'm not trying to..."  
  
"It's all right, John," she soothes him. "I've only just met him, and I can see what a special child he is. Sherlock has done surprisingly well by him."  
  
"Yes, he has," John says, as if she'd said something else entirely. "And Tris is. He's pretty amazing."  
  
Irene smiles faintly. "I wasn't just talking about Tristram though. I meant Sherlock as well. You love him."  
  
John's face hardens and he looks stubbornly at the postcards again. "That's none of your business."  
  
"I intend to be a part of my son's life from now on, and you're involved with his father, whom he lives with. I rather think that does make it my business," she says archly.  
  
John's jaw clenches. "You said you'd only get involved if Tris wanted it. You said you weren't going to interfere."  
  
"John. I'm his mother. He's been wondering about me for nearly nine years. Of course he wants to see me. Look how readily he agreed that I come along with you this morning."  
  
"He's polite," John argues. "He would have said yes to anyone."  
  
"Perhaps," she acknowledges, but the hint of smugness in her tone tells a different story.  
  
John rounds on her, barely keeping his temper in check. "He does not need someone flitting into his life right now, upsetting what little balance he's just barely hanging on to. He needs stability, people and situations he can count on-"  
  
"I hardly think you're in a position to be lecturing me on stabilising influences," Irene cuts across him, her eyes flashing with something she's just barely holding in check. "How long have you and Sherlock been romantically involved? Perhaps a month? For eight and a half years, it's been just him and his father, and then you and your daughter all but steamroll your way into their lives-"  
  
"Tris and Emily were friends first," John says fiercely. "Don't drag that into this."  
  
But Irene continues speaking right over him: "And how have his peers at school reacted to his father being in a same-sex relationship? Oh, that's right - you wouldn't know because you've taken him out of school in the middle of term and brought him to a country he's never seen before, where he doesn't speak the language-"  
  
"You have no idea, do you?" John's almost laughing now. "You haven't the first clue."  
  
Irene draws herself up and looks down her nose at John. She's taller than him anyway - not by much, but her boots do the rest. "I know a great deal more than you think. And for that reason alone, you'd do well to listen to me. But if you'd prefer to dismiss me as misguided and delusional, know this at least: I am Tristram's mother. He is my son. That's not going to change. And if you intend to be in his and his father's life for the long term, it would be to your advantage - and Tristram's too - if you simply accept that and make the best of it."  
  
Her features soften, perhaps aiming for sympathy. "I don't hate you, John. I don't even dislike you. For what it's worth, I think you're good for both of them, and I don't begrudge you your position in either of their lives. God knows I think you're mad for throwing your lot in with Sherlock Holmes, but that's probably one reason he loves you." She smiles coyly. "Don't tell him I told you. He was probably saving it up to tell your gravestone in fifty years or so."  
  
"Now you really are being delusional," John snaps.  
  
Irene laughs, low and warm. "The funny thing about men is they think they're not entirely transparent."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

  
Tristram and Emily meet John and Irene as they come back inside, each clutching several postcards. The shop assistant is back behind the counter ringing up some other customers' purchases.  
  
"What have you got then?" John asks. Emily and Tristram hold out their finds.  
  
Emily's snow globe passes muster easily. Tristram shows John the cards, and John says he thinks they're a very good idea for Mrs Hudson. Irene tells Tristram the cards are for a special Swiss game called 'yass' - or at least that's what it sounds like - and that she'll show him how to play so that he can teach Mrs Hudson.  
  
"I'd like a knife too," Tristram says, displaying the one he took from the stack, "but do you think we could ask if they have one with a magnifier?"  
  
"Of course," John agrees readily, but still asks, "What do you need a magnifier for?"  
  
Tristram hesitates. He doesn't have a particular use for it in mind. And he doesn't want to tell the story about his father and the door knocker; it seems silly somehow. "It could be useful," he hedges. "For... looking at scratches. In brass fittings." It sounds even worse out loud.  
  
John looks amused, but at least he doesn't dig any deeper. "I suppose it could be at that," he allows generously. "Sure, I'll ask."  
  
But the shop assistant tells them that only the bigger models, which they don't carry, have magnifying glasses. She says they could go to another shop and try to find one of those models, but then she tells them a secret: the company that makes the knives has a special visitor's centre where you can go and put together your own knife, with whichever attachments you want. Well, she doesn't use the word 'attachments'. She says a German word, but John doesn't understand it, so she says, "You know, the pieces you stick on, the knifes and the ... glass what make things bigger," apparently not remembering how to say 'magnifying glass'. Which is kind of a hard word, after all.  
  
Tristram would like very much to go to that knife company. Maybe they have other parts he could put into the knife too. He doesn't say anything, though, and John simply thanks the woman for the information and buys the knife without the magnifier. Tristram isn't disappointed. Really. It's a cool knife all the same.  
  
After everything's wrapped up to go, the shop assistant picks up a small glass bowl from the counter next to the cash register. It's filled with a couple dozen little individually wrapped packets similar to the ones he and Emily found on the bed in Father and John's room at the hotel, although a bit smaller.  
  
"Take one, it's make you feel better." She holds the bowl out to Tristram. He knows better than to take candy from strangers, even if he doesn't think she's part of any case his father might be working on. You never know, though. When he doesn't immediately respond, she shakes the bowl a little to encourage him. "It's Traubenzucker." She looks to John and Irene, but they are unable to help with the word. "It's sweet," she tries, smiling.  
  
She looks so hopeful, and she has been very helpful and nice. Tristram doesn't want to be outright rude or hurt her feelings, so he takes a purple one and says, "Thank you." He has no intention of actually eating it, of course. He'll give it to his father so he can analyse it. Although that will probably have to wait until they get back home. He puts it into his pocket, hoping the woman doesn't expect him to unwrap it and eat it right away.  
  
But she doesn't seem to notice. Instead, she turns to Emily and holds the bowl out for her. "One for sister too," the woman says.  
  
"But I'm not-" Emily starts to say, startled, but John nudges her and she falls silent.  
  
"It's all right, go ahead and take one," he says.  
  
Emily thanks her and takes an orange one. The shop assistant holds the bowl up for John and Irene. John takes an orange one like Emily, but Irene politely declines and the woman doesn't press the issue.  
  
As soon as they're outside, Emily starts giggling. "She thought I was your sister!" she crows, as if it were the greatest joke in the world. "She thought I was his sister!" she repeats to her father.  
  
John smiles indulgently. "It wasn't the most far-fetched conclusion she could have drawn. But it would have been too complicated to try and explain, and it doesn't matter. She would have given you the sweet either way."  
  
Emily kind of is, almost, like a sister, Tristram thinks to himself. He doesn't say anything, though, because it sounds like she thinks the shop assistant was pretty stupid to have made that mistake. But she said herself once that if their fathers got married, they'd be brother and sister. Not that their fathers have any such plans - John said they'd tell Tristram and Emily if they ever did - but if their fathers are boyfriends, what does that make Tristram and Emily? Brother-friend and sister-friend? Sibling-friends? It is kind of funny. Tristram giggles a little too.  
  
Irene seems to have convinced John she knows the perfect thing for Harry and Clara, so they all troop after her down the street. Emily hooks her arm through Tristram's good one and chants, "Left... left... left, right, left..." as they walk to keep their steps in sync.  
  
"Oh, the grand old Duke of York, he had ten thousand men," John chimes in, slightly off-key, pretending it's very serious business.  
  
Irene holds her head up and ignores them all. But she's not really ignoring them, because her steps fall into the same rhythm as theirs. Tristram joins in chanting on the next round. By the time Irene brings them to a halt again, Tristram and Emily are both breathless and laughing.  
  
They've stopped in front of a shop with what looks like a tablecloth hanging in the display window. It doesn't get much more interesting inside. It's actually just more souvenirs, but with less plastic and a lot more room between the shelves. In addition to more tablecloths and napkins and the like, there's some glassware and pottery and wooden carvings. There are still an awful lot of Swiss crosses.  
  
The wood pieces are the only things that draw any of Tristram's interest. While Irene tries to convince John of the quality of the other goods, Tristram and Emily inspect the display of wooden nativity scenes that dominates one entire corner of the shop. Emily is taken with the one where all the figures are dressed up in intricately sewn clothing, from the shepherds in their fleece tunics to the wise men in velvet robes embroidered with what looks like real gold thread. Tristram rather favours one particular set carved of a pale, unadorned wood so smooth it looks like ceramic yet so delicate that he's convinced if he touches it, he'll be able to feel the softness of the hair and clothes. He doesn't touch it, though, because the shopkeeper - a woman somewhere in age between Uncle Mycroft and Mrs Hudson with what must be a permanently downturned mouth, judging by the creases in the corners of it - hasn't stopped glaring at him and Emily since they set foot in the shop. Tristram knows the type. He also knows it's best not to antagonise them.  
  
Eventually, though, she has to look away because John's picked something out and she has to ring it up. As soon as Irene's standing between the woman and Tristram, he reaches out one finger and runs it down the figure depicting Mary. It feels like warm silk. Emily sneaks a feel of the velvet of one of the wise man's robes on the other set. Then they exchange a look of shared mischief, trying very hard not to giggle, and hastily stick their hands in their pockets before the woman can look at them again. Well, Tristram puts his left hand in his pocket. His casted right hand is pretty much above suspicion.  
  
As they leave the shop, Emily insists on peeking into the plastic bag John has acquired, but it's just serviettes or tea towels or something, so Tristram's not really interested. It becomes clear at this point that Irene's taken charge as the de facto leader of their little expedition. She has had a couple more weeks to find where things are in the town, after all.  
  
Tristram hopes their next stop isn't more shopping, and he isn't disappointed. Irene leads them off the main road onto a side lane that slopes steeply upward until they come to a little cottage with some truly spectacular icicles hanging off the eaves. At first, Tristram thinks it's a house where someone lives, but then he sees the sign on the door that says 'Naturmuseum', like someone smushed the words together and obliterated the e. It seems like an awfully small house for an entire Natural History Museum. He doesn't think even half of Dippy would fit inside.  
  
They're the only visitors, which is probably a good thing as it's a very small museum. There are just two rooms, one dedicated to plants and the other to animals. The curator, a dour-looking older man with suspenders and a pot belly, emerges from a back room surrounded by the scent of pipe smoke. He knows just about enough English to get across that the museum showcases the local flora and fauna, before he retreats back to his pipe - and elevenses, if Tristram's not mistaken by the crumbs on his shirt.  
  
The animal room mostly contains taxidermied specimens of small mammals and reptiles. Tristram thinks, the next time he gets offered an animal corpse larger than a mouse from Father's friend at the zoo, he might like to try his hand at taxidermy. Father has a book on embalming that he used for a case once that probably has some useful tips. The museum also has a display case with insects and arthropods stuck on pins that gives Tristram an idea for another project. He's particularly surprised to see that scorpions are amongst the local fauna. He's always associated scorpions with hot, dry places.  
  
Emily discovers an interactive panel where they can listen to birdcalls and then match them with the pictures of different native bird species by pushing buttons under the pictures. The names are, helpfully, written next to each picture in German, French, and English, along with their Linnean classifications in Latin. Tristram has no idea on most of them, but Emily doesn't either, so they take turns shrugging and laughing and making wild guesses, and laughing even harder when they get one right by chance. The only one they both recognise instantly is the cuckoo (, according to the legend). Tristram always thought that the distinctive descending minor third was just something that someone had made up, but it turns out the bird really does sound like that.  
  
When they leave the museum, John reaches up and breaks off two of the big icicles from the roof and hands them to Tristram and Emily. Emily promptly licks hers like a giant ice-lolly. Tristram's first thoughts are of all the experiments he could do. He could cut cross-sections to look at under the microscope, or maybe put it in the freezer and see if it grows. He could cut it into sections of equal weight and see how long it takes each piece to melt in different places: one up in his room, one on the windowsill in the kitchen, one ... and then he remembers that they're in Switzerland and he doesn't have access to a microscope or a freezer or any of the rooms in their flat. He's not that set on doing an experiment anyway. Not when there are toboggans and ice restaurants and marching games with Emily and Father and John.  
  
Emily's decided her icicle isn't as tasty as an ice-lolly and holds it up like a sword. "En garde!" she cries.  
  
Tristram lifts his icicle in answer to the challenge and taps it gingerly against hers. The tip of her icicle breaks off anyway. Tristram feels bad and is about to apologise when Emily laughs and taps her icicle against his, rather more forcefully. Another chunk of hers falls off. Tristram gamely hits her icicle again, as he gathers that's the game, and this time his is the one that ends up being shortened. And then it's a wild back and forth of blows exchanged as their icicles get progressively smaller and smaller. Finally, they're both holding little more than stubs and no matter how much they bash them against each other, neither one cracks.  
  
"Listen!" Emily says suddenly, letting the chunk of ice fall from her grip. She jerks her head to the side, towards a narrow, shadowy lane.  
  
Tristram freezes with a feeling of dread and strains his ears for the sound of whatever threat she's picked up on. He can't see any movement down the lane, but that doesn't mean there's nothing there. John and Irene haven't noticed anything and are already uncomfortably far away, having walked on ahead while Tristram and Emily carried out their duel. Tristram's already preparing to defend himself and Emily from whatever she's heard when her face brightens and she turns to Tristram.  
  
"Blackbird!" she announces. ( _Amsel, merle, blackbird, Turdus merula_ , Tristram's memory supplies. He and Emily had giggled over the turds, so that's why it stuck.)  
  
Even with that, it takes him several seconds to struggle his way back out of the effects of his erroneous conclusion. He is not going to have another panic attack. He is _not_. He is going to pull air into his lungs and laugh and agree with Emily even though he didn't hear the blackbird - can't hear anything other than the rush of blood in his ears - and then he's going to walk after John and Irene at a perfectly normal pace, without any care in the world other than not slipping on the ice. And although his laugh comes out too high and too short, it does come out. And although his 'right' sounds about as convincing as Mrs Hudson telling Father she's not his housekeeper, Emily looks pleased and casually hooks her arm through his and doesn't even say anything about it being to steady him on the downward-sloping lane.  
  
Tristram wonders how he ever ended up with a friend like Emily.  
  
When they catch up with John and Irene, Emily says she wants to sit down somewhere and have something to drink. Tristram almost suspects she's only saying so because she thinks he should sit down and have something to drink. He's half grateful and half resentful. His knees are still a bit wobbly, but he's not a baby. He doesn't need anyone else to decide what's best for him. But when he searches her open, earnest face, he can't see any signs of subterfuge. Maybe licking the icicle really did make her thirsty.  
  
At any rate, John says he thinks it's a good idea too and Irene is already exclaiming about knowing 'just the place', so Tristram doesn't even have a chance to say he doesn't need a rest.  
  
They end up in a tearoom. John insists they take a table as far from the window as possible, which Tristram is more relieved about than he'd like to admit. John orders a tea for himself and hot chocolate for Tristram and Emily. Irene jumps in before the waitress can walk away and asks for something called 'vermicelles' (it sounds like vair-me-cell, but she shows Tristram the word on the menu and tells him it means 'little worms', which sounds extremely promising) over John's objections that it will ruin their lunch. There's a bit of tense staring over the table, but Irene wins in the end.  
  
When the bowls arrive, they contain what looks like a small pile of brown spaghetti topped with whipped cream. Despite being curious what exactly the 'spaghetti' (he can tell it's not really worms) is, he doesn't reach for the spoon right away. Neither, he notes, does Emily.  
  
John watches them for a moment, then leans forward and whispers, as if it were a secret, "It's not really worms."  
  
Tristram knows that. He's not worried about what it might be made of, and he doesn't generally have a problem trying new foods. It's more that he doesn't want to eat it if it will make John unhappy. He reckons Emily feels the same.  
  
John gives them a smile that's probably meant to be reassuring. Tristram isn't fooled.  
  
One year, not too long before Christmas, Father damaged his violin bow somehow. Tristram never found out what exactly happened, but it was odd because Father's always so careful with both his violin and the bow. Anyway, Father was able to fix it enough that he could still use it to play, but he would get all snarly and cross after not very long, and even Tristram could tell it didn't sound quite right.  
  
This went on for a couple of weeks, and Tristram mentioned it to Uncle Mycroft - really just mentioned; he's not even sure why he said anything at all because he knows Father absolutely hates for Tristram to say anything about him to Uncle Mycroft. Tristram didn't think anything further of it, but when he and Father went down to Mrs Hudson's on Christmas afternoon a few days later to exchange their gifts, there was a mysterious package waiting for Father under her tree.  
  
Tristram thinks Uncle Mycroft was clever to leave it at Mrs Hudson's, because Father knew right away who it was from even though there wasn't a tag, and if it had been just the two of them upstairs in their flat, Father probably would have binned the package without even opening it. But Mrs Hudson wasn't about to let them leave without having seen what was inside the prettily wrapped gift box, so Father sighed in his most put-upon way and tore away the paper to let her see it was just a violin bow.  
  
And then they had rum cake with real rum - and whipped cream, come to think of it, just like the vermicelles - and Mrs Hudson made them listen to one of her vinyl records with some man singing Christmas songs in a funny, wobbly voice. Then they were released to go back to their own flat. The box with the bow was deposited on the coffee table and never opened. Father continued to play with his old, wonky bow.  
  
A few days later, Tristram noticed the new bow had migrated to one of the bookshelves. He stopped paying attention to it then, but he knows that at some point it disappeared from the common living area altogether, because it's not on the bookshelf anymore. Father eventually did get a new bow, but it was a different one.  
  
Tristram's pretty sure there wasn't anything wrong with Uncle Mycroft's bow, other than the fact that it came from Uncle Mycroft. Just like John doesn't think there's anything wrong with the food here at the tearoom, other than the fact that it was Irene's idea.  
  
Tristram wonders whether there's always going to be this tension when John and Irene are in the same room. It makes Tristram feel uncomfortable. He's actually kind of starting to like her. Or at least to be interested by her. She watches things the same way Father does: greedily and with an all-encompassing focus, like there's something important there that no one else is able to see. Tristram wonders if she also makes deductions. She's obviously clever - if not even Father's been able to figure out what she's doing here, she must be very good indeed.  
  
It's not only that, though; reading between the lines of the bare bones explanation of Tristram's origins that Uncle Mycroft gave him, Tristram's figured out that Irene and Father knew each other for a while, back before Tristram was born. He's not sure if they were ever really friends the way that John and Father are, but they ... well, they must have slept in the same bed, probably more than once. Tristram can't possibly imagine his father willingly spending that much time - and especially in such an intimate manner - with anyone he didn't at least find interesting, to some degree, outside of a case.  
  
So there must be something about Irene that Father found worth his time - even if he changed his mind later, or figured out everything he wanted to figure out about her and simply lost interest, the way he loses interest in the body parts he brings home, once he's exhausted their experimental potential. Not that Tristram would expect Father to keep those old body parts around forever, but Tristram sometimes finds the odd ear or pancreas, depleted and black, tied up in a plastic bag in the rubbish. Seeing them makes him feel the way he did when he botched the dissection of the iguana. Mrs Hudson took him to bury the iguana remains in Regent's Park, under a rock, which helped a little. The fingers and livers and scalps Father brings home never get buried; they end up in the council incinerator along with orange peels and old shoes. At least Irene got to go to Singapore and New York.  
  
The point being, however, that Irene really can't be all bad. She's certainly not done anything particularly egregious so far, as far as Tristram's seen. Yet John persists in behaving much the same toward her as Father does toward Uncle Mycroft.  
  
The difference is, John isn't going to throw the food away just to spite Irene.  
  
"It's all right," John assures them. "We're on holiday. Looks good." He nods encouragingly at the vermicelles.  
  
Irene sips her espresso and maintains a polite expression, as if she doesn't care one way or another whether Tristram and Emily try the dish. Maybe she really doesn't. Tristram can't read her with any sort of accuracy. Which may be why his eye keeps being drawn back to her.  
  
Tristram picks up his spoon and scoops up a small amount of the brown spaghetti-worms along with some whipped cream. It smells good. It tastes good too, it turns out. Sort of like marzipan, only not as terribly sweet. He goes for a second, larger spoonful and makes the next discovery at the same time as Emily.  
  
"There's biscuit at the bottom!" she exclaims.  
  
Irene smiles like she was just waiting for someone to say it. Her teeth are very white. Although perhaps it just looks that way because her lipstick is so very red. "It's meringue," she says. "I figured you have to eat something with meringue at least once while you're here."  
  
"Why's that?" Emily asks around her mouthful.  
  
"Because meringue was invented here."  
  
John makes a sceptical sound. "Really?"  
  
"Well, it can't be proven, of course, but that's the story. Meringue... Meiringen. It's where the name comes from, at any rate."  
  
"Huh." John looks like he's not sure whether to be interested in the new information or irritated that Irene knows something he doesn't.  
  
"Do you want a taste, Daddy?" Emily holds out a big spoonful for him.  
  
"Yeah, I'll..." He scans the table then cranes his neck to check the rest of the room. Is he looking for something?  
  
"Here, use mine." Irene picks up the little spoon lying on the saucer beside her espresso cup.  
  
"Oh, no, I-" John starts to protest politely, but Irene cuts across him with a little irritated sound.  
  
"I didn't touch it. Besides," she adds more slyly, "our mouths have been in the same place."  
  
John looks at her sharply. "Recently?" It sounds more like a challenge than a question.  
  
"John, you know a lady doesn't tell tales out of school." Irene appears to be thoroughly enjoying herself, even if Tristram is completely lost. Where have their mouths been?  
  
"You're not going to bait me, and this is an inappropriate topic," John bites out. He picks up three plastic-wrapped toothpicks from the small dispenser on the table and removes the wrapping. Then he holds them together to form a little shovel and uses them to scoop up a small amount of Emily's vermicelles. "Mm, you're right, very good," he tells Emily with an attempt at a smile, but it's clear he's just barely holding on to his temper.  
  
Irene leans forward across the table, as if to speak confidentially to Emily. "I really do like your father, you know," she says in a loud whisper. "He's so much fun to tease."  
  
Emily sucks on her vermicelles a bit, eying Irene coolly. "He's not going to kiss you, you know," she finally decides is the appropriate response.  
  
John chokes and grabs a paper serviette from the dispenser to cough into. Irene laughs out loud. Not the smug, knowing chuckle she's been employing, but something that Tristram reckons is born of genuine delight.  
  
"Emily, darling, you are a treasure," Irene says when she's done.  
  
"I'm not your darling," Emily states flatly. She stares right at her and puts another big spoonful of vermicelles and cream into her mouth.  
  
Irene's expression sobers somewhat, although the mirth is still dancing in her eyes. "No, of course not. I'm sorry. Truly." She reaches across the table to touch the tips of her fingers to Emily's hand. "Maybe we can be friends, though?"  
  
Emily's glare becomes clouded by uncertainty and she looks to her father. John appears to have recovered from his coughing fit. He clears his throat and frowns down at his coffee cup, like he's trying to think of what to say but doesn't end up saying anything after all.  
  
Irene gives him a sidelong glance and withdraws her hand. "Well," she says, noticeably more subdued, "I'll consider you one, and I hope you'll consider me one as well." She drinks the last bit of her espresso. Her lipstick leaves a red mark on the rim of the white porcelain cup. Tristram wonders whether he should try to take the cup with him. If Irene's part of a case, it might be helpful to have a sample of her DNA. But then he remembers that Irene kissed Father on the cheek that morning, so if he needed a DNA sample he could have taken it then.  
  
Tristram takes another spoonful of his vermicelles, making sure to get a nice portion of the meringue. It really is good.

&&&&&&

  
When John enters the bedroom, Sherlock is lying on his back on the bed, fully clothed, his hands pressed palm-to-palm under his chin. The sound of the television wafts in from the other room.  
  
"Sherlock?" John says softly, checking whether he's awake.  
  
Sherlock grunts but doesn't open his eyes.  
  
John pulls the door most of the way shut and drags one of the two chairs in the room closer to the bed.  
  
"Kids are watching telly. Think we can strike lunch for today, Irene stuffed them full of sweets," he grumbles. "Any news?" He sits down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  
  
"No, just some... no," Sherlock mumbles vaguely. "Thinking," he adds. His eyes are still closed.  
  
"Really 'no', or nothing you're going to tell me 'no'?" John asks, ignoring the hint.  
  
Sherlock's forehead creases ever so slightly, but he doesn't answer.  
  
John waits several more seconds then says in a low, urgent voice, "Sherlock, we've been here five days. My emergency leave is up in two, and then I really may have to go looking for another job. We've had the kids out of school for almost three weeks. I can't-" He presses his lips together and looks down and away before returning his eyes to Sherlock. "I need to know what's going on." His expression is almost pleading, even though Sherlock can't see it.  
  
Sherlock exhales, then opens his eyes and turns his head toward John. They watch each other for a long moment. Then Sherlock sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed.  
  
"There's a case the police back in London would like me to have a look at."  
  
"Oh," John says, as if he hadn't expected that. "Is it connected, do you think?"  
  
Sherlock looks like he finds the notion ridiculous. "No."  
  
"Well then why are you-" John shakes his head as if to clear it. "Look, never mind that then. Have you heard from Mycroft?"  
  
"I'd tell you if there were anything new." He sounds indignant that John might even suggest otherwise.  
  
John appears unimpressed. "Would you? Or just what you think I need to hear?" He catches and holds Sherlock's gaze.  
  
Sherlock's expression remains inscrutable for several seconds before he gives a little sigh. "It doesn't matter anyway, as there isn't anything new."  
  
"Well, maybe it's time for us to be heading back then," John suggests. "Maybe they decided not to pursue it after losing both Moran and Tonga."  
  
It looks like Sherlock is going to reject the idea out of hand, but then changes his mind abruptly. "All right," he says, as if he's surprised to find it's not such a bad suggestion after all. "Maybe we should. Although it's been a ... rather enjoyable holiday." His voice creeps down a register at the end of the statement and a sly smile sneaks across his face.  
  


John smiles too and leans forward to kiss Sherlock, bracing his hand on Sherlock's thigh. "That it has."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Dippy' is the nickname of the Diplodocus skeleton displayed in the main hall of the Natural History Museum in London.
> 
> Although all of the shops and attractions I've mentioned do exist, I didn't stick to the exact layout of Meiringen, so it may not be possible to reach them all on foot in the amount of time suggested here.
> 
> If anyone is interested in visiting Meiringen, here are some links:
> 
> [The hand weaving and crafts shop](http://www.waebi.ch/EN/).  
> [The bakery with the meringue](http://www.frutal.ch/). The story of the word 'meringue's origin is apocryphal, but often repeated.  
> [The local natural history museum](http://www.naturmuseum.org). I made up everything about the inside of this museum. I have no idea what it actually has. Also, it's only open during the summer months.  
> And of course the [Sherlock Holmes museum](http://www.alpenenergie.ch/de/Information/Sherlock_Holmes_Museum), which they didn't visit in this story for obvious reasons.  
> There's also a [military base](http://www.lw.admin.ch/internet/luftwaffe/en/home/verbaende/einsatz_lw/flpl_kdo_mei.html) in Meiringen with an airport that you can visit to see the military jets. I wanted to include it in the story because I liked the army connection for John, but then it just seemed like too much and I couldn't think of a good story-related reason for them to go there. But if you are ever in the area, it might be worth a visit. They also put on air shows once in a while.
> 
> The Swiss card game is 'Jass' (pronounced 'yahss'). It's something like pinochle, apparently (not that I know how to play pinochle) and is considered a national sport in Switzerland. Tournaments are broadcast every Saturday evening on Swiss television. You can read a bit about the game [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jass).
> 
> Jass cards:


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

  
Sitting in the hotel restaurant, waiting for their dinner, Tristram takes his new knife out of his pocket and admires it for about the fiftieth time. It's classic red, and it has not only a magnifying lens, but also a wire cutter and a pair of scissors in addition to the basic kit. Emily got a silver one with a pen, a saw and a screwdriver, which is also rather cool. They were only allowed to pick three extras each. John said it was because otherwise it would have been too expensive, and Father said it was because they didn't have all day. Emily chose different ones than Tristram on purpose. This way, she said, they could have twice as many between them and they'd be an even better team. Sometimes Emily is fairly clever. Pretty much all the time, really, except for maths.  
  
John and Father came out of the bedroom just when the animal rescue programme he and Emily were watching ended and told them to put their jackets back on. Both Father and John were all red around the mouth and neck, and Father's clothes were rumpled. Tristram couldn't tell about John's clothes because they're usually kind of rumpled anyway. Tristram doesn't mind anymore when Father and John kiss (as long as he doesn't have to watch), but he's beginning to wonder if it's really normal that they spend so much time doing it. Doesn't it get boring putting your mouth on someone else's after a few seconds?  
  
It turned out they were going to the knife museum after all. It wasn't even up on a mountain. Like the nature museum they went to that morning, it was just a building on a street, although it was a bigger, more modern building in a bigger, more modern town that they had to take a train to get to.  
  
John was in a good mood all afternoon, laughing and joking. He sat next to Father on the way there so that Emily and Tristram could both ride facing forward, and at one point he and Father put their hands on top of each other on Father's leg, the same way they did in the car on the way to the airport the first time, before Mister Tonga was arrested. Tristram wouldn't have said John seemed particularly worried before, but now it was as if his whole body was lighter and his whole face kept pulling upward. Tristram began to see what Emily meant about how her father used to be, before her mother was killed.  
  
Father was more subdued, although maybe it just seemed that way in comparison to John's exuberance. He was certainly engaged and present, readily answering Emily's questions about the mummified remains of a Stone Age man that were found in the Alps a couple of decades ago. Even so, Tristram had the feeling he was brooding over something. It might have been a case, or Irene, or something else altogether. It wasn't over John, though, because he held onto John's hand tighter than tight and even when they let gojust as someone walked past, Father kept his leg pressed right up against John's.  
  
There was a time not too long ago - really not long ago, just a few days - when that would have made Tristram feel resentful because why should John get to sit next to Father and put his hands on him when Tristram was sitting on the other seat all alone? Even if he wasn't really alone, because Emily was right next to him. But the point was, he wasn't next to Father. However, he knows now that if he'd really needed it, Father would have pulled him over and let Tristram put his head on his lap. Or Tristram could have put his arms around Father and held him as tight as he wanted, like he did back at the safe house. If he had needed it. He didn't, but he knows he could have. Both of those things, and more, are possibilities now. It never occurred to him that they were before. Before they had John and Emily. But so many things are different now. Better. So maybe John needed Father's leg against his.  
  
John smiled at Tristram then, as if he'd read his mind. Tristram smiled back quickly and looked out the window, because they were coming out of the tunnel.  
  
Later, at the knife company's visitor's centre, Father sat at the pocket knife assembly station with Tristram on his lap and helped him work the machine because Tristram couldn't do it himself with one hand in a cast. It was almost like sitting together on the toboggan, except it was quieter and there wasn't any wind taking his breath away. And he and Father talked while they put the knife together, discussing what the best tools would be and why. Father said it was too bad there wasn't a wire or something that could be used as a lock-pick, but when they got home he'd add one for him.  
  
Then they went to a snack bar because the missed lunch eventually caught up to Emily and Tristram. Father and Tristram sat on one side of the table, and John and Emily sat on the other side. Tristram told Father about the duel with the icicles, and they had a nice discussion about whether it's possible to kill someone with an icicle. (The conclusion was: not by stabbing, but possibly by bludgeoning, if the icicle were big enough.) Tristram also told him about the bird calls, and Father said he thought it would be an excellent idea to learn a bird call or two. And then Emily thought of the idea to make a whole secret code with bird calls that only the four of them would know. Just in case. She didn't say in case of what, but they all knew. And Father said he thought that was an excellent idea too.  
  
So all in all it was a fairly brilliant afternoon. If it hadn't been for Father's preoccupation with whatever it was he was preoccupied with, Tristram might have called it perfect. Even tonight, as they all sit together in the hotel restaurant, Father's eyes have a distant look to them although he's looking right at Tristram. It's not that Tristram thinks Father doesn't see him or is lost in thought; it's more like he's trying to see more. Like he can't get enough of whatever it is that he sees there, in Tristram's face. It's slightly unnerving, even for Tristram, who's more than used to being the subject of his father's scrutiny and all manner of stares.  
  
John doesn't appear to notice it. Instead, he seems to be pre-occupied with something of his own, as he looks a bit self-conscious. "Here, I erm... got you all something." He lifts his hips up so he can dig something out of the pocket of his trousers. He comes up with some key chains. They all have a plastic square attached with some sort of picture enclosed in the plastic. John hands one key chain to each of them - one for Emily, one for Tristram, and one for Father.  
  
Tristram looks at his and is surprised to see there's a picture of Father in the plastic. In fact, it's a copy of the rail pass picture they took at the airport. Well, not a copy; it's one of the very pictures from the strip that came out of the machine. Tristram flips the key chain over and sees himself looking back at him. He turns it back to Father's picture and can't help grinning.  
  
"Cool!" Emily exclaims. She's grinning at her key chain too, and for a moment Tristram feels an odd almost-jealousy that Emily also has a picture of Father to carry around with her. But then she tilts her key chain toward Tristram, and he sees that it's the picture of her own father from the photo booth. "And look, there's me on the back," Emily says and shows him. She leans in a bit more so she can see Tristram's key chain. He obliges and turns it over so she can see the other side too. She laughs. "Your and Sherlock's hair is both sticking out the same."  
  
John had pointed that out too, when they first got the pictures. Tristram flips the plastic trinket back and forth quickly several times. It almost has the effect of a flip book. He watches, fascinated, as his features morph into his father's and back, over and over.  
  
"Who's on yours?" Emily asks.  
  
Tristram is about to frown at her in confusion, because she's just seen who's on his, but then he realises she's asking Father. Surely he also has himself and Tristram.  
  
Father closes his hand around the key chain John gave him and slips it into his pocket. His face looks long and he's keeping his eyes down. "There's a picture of Tristram," he says, but he's being evasive; Tristram knows the signs.  
  
"Can I see?" Emily asks and holds out her hand.  
  
"It's the same picture Tristram has on his," Father tells her, which means no. He's frowning, but he says it gently, almost too quietly.  
  
"Here, you can see mine." John hands her the key chain he'd kept for himself.  
  
Tristram leans in to see it too. One side has Emily and the other has the picture of John and Father laughing together in the photo booth and looking silly.  
  
Tristram's a little bit - just a tiny bit - disappointed that he's the only one who's not in any of the pictures on John's key chain. But there wouldn't be any room for another picture anyway. And he doesn't have John or Emily on his, and Emily doesn't have him or Father on hers. So somehow it all evens out. Still, he's left with a vague sense of dissatisfaction despite the fact that he likes his key chain very much.  
  
Tristram is curious, though, which picture is on the other side of Father's key chain. It's not likely to be Emily. That leaves either John or... Is it one of the photos that weren't supposed to be taken? One of the ones with their fathers kissing... or the one where they were staring into each other's eyes?

&&&&&&&

  
Once Tristram and Emily are in bed, Sherlock follows John into the bathroom. He closes the door behind them, takes John's face between the palms of his hands and presses a kiss to his mouth, holding it until John has to pull back to breathe. Sherlock only lets him fill his lungs once before he puts his lips on John's again and plasters their bodies together, both hands moving onto John's back - one sliding up into his hair and the other down to press his hips forward against Sherlock's.  
  
John's hands find their way to Sherlock's hips and squeeze. "You're welcome," he somehow manages to murmur into the non-existent space between them.  
  
"For what?" Sherlock says distractedly.  
  
"No idea, but whatever it is, you're welcome to it. Everything..." He can't speak for several long seconds then. When Sherlock finally lets him come up for air again, he says, "Let me just get cleaned up a bit and I'll er... meet you in the other room."  
  
"I want you inside me," Sherlock says breathlessly and pulls John's shirt out of his trousers so he can get one hand up underneath.  
  
"Yeah, erm... God, okay, but have you..." John takes half a step back to give Sherlock more room to work with and swallows heavily. "Sherlock, it's not something..." They go in for another long kiss, but when Sherlock starts unbuttoning John's shirt, John angles his head down so that Sherlock can't reach his lips easily for a moment. He clears his throat but keeps his eyes closed. "Have you ever done that before?" he asks.  
  
Sherlock pauses. "What difference does that make?" He sounds irritated.  
  
John exhales. "So, okay. It's..." He lifts his head and looks at Sherlock. "I haven't. I don't have anything against in in principle, but if neither of has experience... I like how things have been going. There's no rush, right? I - It's my fault for all that 'properly' rot, I'm sorry if I made you think-"  
  
Sherlock frowns thunderously. "If you don't want to have anal intercourse with me, you only need say so."  
  
John huffs out a laugh. "Sherlock, I think I would quite literally do anything you wanted me to, which is a fairly frightening thought. But for this..." John takes a deep breath and looks Sherlock square in the eye. "Did you get an enema kit, along with the condoms and lubricant?"  
  
"That's not necessary," Sherlock scoffs.  
  
"Well, no, not technically, but it's my preference. For both of our health and safety. I'm almost out of gloves too, I've been using them up on Tris's back. Look, if we're going back tomorrow anyway- When we get back. We can try it then. Either way. Both ways. Anything you want... I mean," he hedges tentatively, "if you still want to...if we're still..."  
  
Sherlock stills his hands and squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the side of John's face. "I honestly can't imagine ever not wanting this... you..." he says in a low voice. He takes a deep breath and continues, "I don't just mean that particular act... or any of that. I just ... you..."  
  
John turns his head enough to find Sherlock's lips. "I know, yeah, me too. God, so much. So much," he repeats almost inaudibly.  
  
Sherlock finishes unbuttoning John's shirt as they kiss. John still has a white t-shirt on underneath, but that doesn't stop Sherlock from smoothing his hands over John's torso wherever he can reach. When John doesn't reciprocate, Sherlock picks John's hands up from where they are still gripping Sherlock's hips and places them on the placket of his shirt.  
  
John smiles into their kiss. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Obvious."  
  
"I'm not having sex here in the bathroom." There's not much weight behind the words, though, and John doesn't make any attempt to stop Sherlock from continuing to disrobe him.  
  
"Dull," Sherlock says as he pulls John's shirt off his shoulders.  
  
"I need a good wash, for one thing." John nuzzles against Sherlock's head as Sherlock places butterfly kisses on his neck. "Feels like I've tramping up and down the entire country."  
  
"It's a very small country," Sherlock points out. Without detaching his lips from John, he leans back and gropes around for the faucet to the large, round bathtub.  
  
"Sherlock, wait, you... you want us to take a bath together?"  
  
Sherlock straightens and glances from the large tub to John with a sly look. "I believe it was made for that specific purpose." He's about to turn the water on when John puts out his hand to stop him.  
  
"We can't hear what's going on out there with the water running," he says gently.  
  
Sherlock's expression falters then turns into a scowl. "Yes. Right." His hand drops away from the faucet and he stands there, one hand still on John's chest, staring down at his fingers distractedly.  
  
"You go first, then we can switch," John offers, trying to keep the mood upbeat.  
  
Sherlock pushes away from John and stands with his head down, bracing himself against the sink. "I wish this were done." His voice is bitter and low, and as tense as his shoulders.  
  
John takes half a step toward Sherlock but stops before he touches him. He thrusts his fisted hands into his pockets. "Tomorrow. We can go home tomorrow and this whole thing will be over in no time."

&&&&&&

  
"Is Sherlock hurt?" Emily asks in a hushed voice once their fathers have disappeared into the bathroom.  
  
The lights are off, the curtains drawn tight. When they came back after dinner, the curtains were open, which threw everyone into a tizzy until Father decided all it meant was that the housekeeping staff had been in. They hadn't been able to clean that morning because Father was in the room. But the curtains are closed now, and John said he'd leave instructions with the front desk to leave them that way.  
  
John and Father both read to them tonight from the Harry Potter book. At first they sat like they had the other night: John on the sofa bed with Tristram and Emily on either side of him and Father in the chair with his feet propped up on the end of the bed, doing something on his phone. Then John got to the end of the chapter and everyone started to shift for the tucking-into-bed part when Father said, "Give me the book, I'll read another chapter."  
  
John and Tristram kind of sat there and gawped at him. Emily grinned and plucked the book out of her father's limp hands and shuffled forward to hand it to Father.  
  
"Chapter ten," she said and settled back against her own father's side.  
  
And then Father read. That chapter had Dumbledore in it too, and Father did his voice every bit as perfectly as Tristram - and Emily - had suspected he would.  
  
Father read to them before, of course, back at their flat. Tristram had been mildly surprised that he'd agreed when Emily asked him, but he'd been quite willing; perhaps even flattered.  
  
Tristram considers with a guilty start, lying there in the dark next to Emily, that perhaps Father had wanted to be asked to read before tonight too. Maybe that's why he sat in the chair at the end of the bed and pretended to be busy with his phone: because he wanted to be included but didn't know whether he was welcome. Of course Tristram would never in a million years have thought to ask his father to read him a story at bedtime. Has this side of his father always been there, waiting for someone to discover it? Or is this him trying on a part, like he does when he pretends to be a streets and sanitation worker or a clergyman or a policeman? (Tristram knows Father could get in a lot of trouble for that last one and he's not to tell anyone.)  
  
Father's done quite a lot of things, come to think of it, that aren't exactly typical for him, since he and John have become boyfriends. The whole boyfriends thing itself is the hugest one, of course, but there are a lot more. Not that any of the new things are bad - some of them are quite good, in Tristram's opinion - but he can't help thinking that Father's always relieved when he can take off the reflective vest or vicar's collar or uniform and wash the dirt or dye or styling gel out of his hair.  
  
What if he's just playing a part now? Tristram doesn't think he's pretending to be John's boyfriend for a case; the way he and John were looking at each other in that one picture, the genuine pleasure and happiness in his voice when he and John really get talking, the fact that he invited John and Emily into their home and took them to meet Grandmother ... no, that's not fake. But maybe he's doing it for John. Maybe he's acting the way he thinks John's boyfriend should act because he wants to be that person. But can he keep that up forever? What will happen when he wants his old hairstyle and clothes back, figuratively speaking? Tristram gets an unpleasant chill in the pit of his stomach at the thought. Because he doesn't want to go back to life without John and Emily.  
  
He doesn't think Emily would stop being his friend if Father and John weren't boyfriends anymore. John said he was Tristram's friend too. Maybe they could still go to the park on Sunday morning once in a while and have a bun. And maybe John would still sit in the waiting room while he plays games with Mrs Daniels. Maybe. But there definitely wouldn't be any stories at bedtime or having breakfast together. No more pillow fights. No more of John taking care of his injuries - not that Tristram expects to get hurt that badly again, but he's oddly come to enjoy their little nightly ritual of re-applying bandages and talking about things he'd never talk about with Emily or his father.  
  
On the other hand, maybe Tristram has nothing to worry about. Maybe this is simply how Father acts when he has a best friend who's also his boyfriend. Tristram has no data for comparison.  
  
But Emily has asked him a question. Another example of atypical behaviour: Father following John into the bathroom. It's a good guess on Emily's part, that he might be hurt. That's pretty much the only reason Tristram knows of for two people to go into a bathroom together, is for one to help the other because they're hurt or sick. But the four of them been together all afternoon and evening, and he didn't see anything happen to Father that might require medical care. So he answers, "No, I don't think so."  
  
"He went in the bathroom with my dad," she points out, in case Tristram hadn't seen the connection.  
  
"Maybe they wanted to kiss." Tristram can't think of anything else. Even though John said that they might see him and Father hugging or kissing and he didn't want them to be uncomfortable about it, Tristram's noticed they're always careful to go into another room when they want to kiss each other more than just a quick greeting or good-bye.  
  
"In the bathroom?" Emily asks, incredulous. Tristram can imagine the sceptical twist to her mouth and has to smile.  
  
"Maybe they wanted to clean their teeth first." That seems more reasonable. The toothpaste adverts on the telly are always going on about how they make your breath kissably fresh. Maybe they just didn't want to wait that long with taking turns.  
  
They lie there silently, listening. Tristram fancies he might hear a voice, but it's speaking too low and indistinct for him even to tell whether it's Father or John. Maybe it's not even coming from inside their suite. There's definitely no sound of water running, though.  
  
Emily breaks the silence. "How much longer do you think we're going to stay here?" Her voice floats across the mattress to him, disembodied.  
  
The question of when they're going back, of course, is entirely dependent on why they're here in the first place. A question which Father and John have been evasive at best on. So Tristram gives the only answer he can: "I don't know."  
  
"What if we miss so much school they make us repeat the year?" Emily wonders. She sounds anxious.  
  
Tristram's not really anxious about missing school. He wouldn't even care about repeating the year, as such. It's not as if he has any friends in his class that he wants to move up with. But it would be incredibly dreary to have to re-do all the same worksheets and readings. Even if they go back soon, though, he's going to have masses of work to catch up on, and he'll still have the cast for another three weeks. And even after that, the physical therapist at the hospital warned him, his right hand would be weak for a long time. He should practise left-handed writing some more.  
  
But then he remembers his father said everything with the school was taken care of. He tells Emily, and that seems to comfort her. Although 'taken care of' could mean lots of things. Tristram keeps that thought to himself because really, it won't do them any good to worry about it.  
  
"Did your father say anything to you? About why we're here?" Tristram asks instead. Because John's apparently talked to Emily about things before that no one thought to discuss with Tristram. To be fair, the reverse is true as well. Tristram hasn't always been entirely forthcoming with Emily on certain matters. Like the fact that the bullet that hit him was meant for her father.  
  
"He just said we all needed to get away after everything that's happened," Emily says.  
  
Neither of them have to mention what those things are: not just him getting shot, but the almost attack at the airport, Friday Afternoon, her Aunt Claire being killed...  
  
"What did your dad tell you?" Emily asks back. Tristram hears her shifting, and feels the mattress jiggle as she turns onto her side to face him.  
  
"He said it was a holiday. But I also think he's working on a case." He didn't say it directly, but he hinted at it. On the other hand, he's been spending an awful lot of time with Tristram and John and Emily, going to restaurants and playing - and sleeping all night - which he definitely wouldn't do if he were on a case. Still, there's undeniably something else occupying his father's thoughts.  
  
"But they caught the man." Tristram can hear Emily's little frown.  
  
But Father also said, when he came back from the airport, that it wasn't over yet. Tristram doesn't know whether Emily didn't hear that or didn't understand what it meant. Another secret. He absolutely cannot tell her the one about her father being the hit man's target. That's over now anyway. But he thinks she does need to know about this.  
  
So Tristram turns onto his side too and says in a low voice, "He wasn't the one behind it all. Whoever sent him is still out there."  
  
Tristram can actually hear Emily's throat click as she swallows. "The bogeyman," she whispers.  
  
"There's no such thing as a bogeyman," Tristram says firmly, repeating what Father said. It gives him more confidence to hear his voice forming the words. "Whoever it is, it's just a person. And I think my dad and your dad are still looking for him."  
  
"Here?" It sounds like she thinks that's a pretty far-fetched idea. It also sounds as if it hadn't occurred to her before that they might not be safe here, and she doesn't really like the idea.  
  
Tristram tries to reassure her as best he can. Father's said several times that they were safe here, and Tristram has to believe that's true. "I think... I think this is like the safe house, only it's a whole safe country. They can't get us here. But maybe we can't go back until they find whoever's the real bad guy."  
  
"How can they find him from here?" Emily asks.  
  
That's a reasonable question. Father does a lot of his investigations through the computer and his phone, but when it really comes down to it, he's best tracking down leads in person. But Father isn't the only one working on it this time.  
  
"I think my uncle's helping them," Tristram says.  
  
Uncle Mycroft has to be involved. They stayed at his house that one night when John and Father went out together, and then they all had to leave head over heels in the middle of the night. That was when everything really started. And Uncle Mycroft arranged for this trip too. Tristram's almost one hundred percent certain that Uncle Mycroft's helping to catch whoever sent Mister Tonga. No, he's sure. One hundred percent.  
  
"I hope they find him soon," Emily says.  
  
The bathroom door opens and they fall silent. John comes out and closes the door behind him, then goes into the bedroom. The shower starts.  
  
John's left the bedroom door open. Tristram doesn't want him to hear them talking about all this stuff. Tristram knows that he and Father are trying to keep as much as they can from Tristram and Emily so that they don't get scared. Admittedly, Tristram's panic attacks are probably a factor in that decision. As is Emily's insecurity about being separated from her father, which even Tristram's picked up on. He wonders what else there is that he and Emily haven't guessed yet. What other dangers are lurking.  
  
He turns onto his back and waits for sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Victorinox (Swiss army knife maker) visitor's centre and museum website is [here](http://www.victorinox.com/ch/app/content/Brunnen_visitor_center). It is about an hour from Meiringen by car. They only actually offer one model of knife for self-assembly, the Spartan. But it would be cool if they let you put on any attachment you wanted. :)
> 
> The mummified Stone Age man is 'Ötzi', named for the Ötztal region on the Austrian-Italian border where he was found.
> 
> The 'Friday Afternoon' that Tristram references is from Getting Better, when he and Emily were kidnapped.
> 
> I have been reliably informed that children in the UK are not held back in school due to absences, so Emily and Tristram would have nothing to worry about.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't thank my fabulous beta readers, ruth0007 and dioscureantwins nearly enough, but they really have made this better, especially from here to the end where things really start cranking.

**Chapter Twelve**

  
John comes back to the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and his clothes clutched to his chest. "Tris's back's looking better, by the w-" he says, only to stop short as he looks up. "Jesus Chr- Sherlock!" he hisses and hastily closes the door behind him.  
  
Sherlock is leaning back against the pillows on the bed wearing only his pants. One leg is stretched out lazily in front of him, the other crooked up but splayed to one side. He has his hand cupped around himself.  
  
"One of the kids could have come in!" John says, scandalised, but his eyes are fixed on the shape outlined beneath Sherlock's hand.  
  
Sherlock frowns. "You think I don't know the difference between your footsteps and theirs? Anyway, they know to knock. Unlike you. God only knows what you might have walked in on." He smirks and squeezes himself.  
  
"Cheeky." John drops his clothes on the floor and pads over to the bed, holding the towel at his hip with one hand. His lips curl into a warm smile. "That's lovely, that is."  
  
Sherlock settles his hips, letting his legs fall even further open as he continues to move his hand between them. "Lovely?" he says dubiously. "I was hoping you'd go deeper."  
  
"Oh yes," John agrees, his voice a low rumble. He puts one knee on the bed and leans over to kiss Sherlock, bracing himself with one hand on the pillow so he can take his time. "I will." He tilts his head down to watch Sherlock caressing himself through his pants.  
  
"Come here," Sherlock says after a while, when John's breaths have become heavy and fast against Sherlock's neck, matching Sherlock's wafting into John's hair.  
  
John lets go of the towel so he can move, and it falls open. Sherlock takes an appreciative look. John lets him.  
  
"It's er... yeah. I clearly think this is a very good idea," John says, a playful glint in his eye.  
  
Sherlock smirks. "Obvious." He reaches out and puts his hand around John so he can stroke him.  
  
John sucks in a breath. "And that..." He groans. "Yeah, that's very, very good..." He half lowers himself and half falls so he's sitting on the mattress beside Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock has to shift his position to keep his hand on John. His eyes flick intently from what he's doing up to John's face and back. John's head is hanging down, his eyes are screwed shut and his breaths are puffing out audibly from his open mouth.  
  
"John..." Sherlock says, more an expression of awe than a bid for attention, but it's enough to make John open his eyes and look at Sherlock.  
  
When he does, Sherlock's hand falters at what he sees reflected back at him. There is an interminable moment of mutual understanding, realisation, revelation.  
  
John's breath catches as he makes to say something, but Sherlock's eyes widen with a flash of recognition and he speaks first.  
  
"Don't," he blurts out. "Don't, please, I can't..."  
  
John searches Sherlock's face, worried, but then his expression softens and he nods slowly. "Okay."  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes as if that will remove him from John's steady gaze. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't."  
  
"No, Sherlock. It's fine." John reaches over and puts his hand on top of where Sherlock's has fallen still on his pants. "Show me."  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes and lets John see what's there, just for a second, before he looks down at their joined hands on him. He takes a breath that may be just a bit shaky and starts moving his hand the way he was before. After two or three passes, he lets go and lets John continue alone. At the first touch of John's hand - even through his underwear - Sherlock closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting out a soft sound. John keeps going.  
  
"Like this?" John asks.  
  
"That should be-" Sherlock grunts. "Incredibly obvious."  
  
John follows the pattern Sherlock started, kneading and stroking in an almost hypnotic rhythm while he runs his other hand slowly over Sherlock's chest and arms. Sherlock's hand has slipped down onto John's knee, which he grips tightly. When Sherlock's body starts to tense up and his breaths become more intense, John leans forward and puts his face against Sherlock's, nudging and kissing until Sherlock surfaces from his internal retreat with a sharp intake of breath and responds with kisses that rapidly become passionate. He tilts his hips toward John, trying to get closer, and grasps John's hips, his back, whatever he can blindly reach. Then, as if suddenly remembering that John is sitting next to him completely exposed, he reaches down and takes him in hand again. It's an awkward angle, though, and he doesn't have much range of motion.  
  
"Here, what if I..." John lifts up and shifts himself over so he's straddling Sherlock, resting his buttocks on Sherlock's thighs. He puts his palm over Sherlock's now prominent bulge and rubs. "Easier this way." He leans forward, bracing himself with his unoccupied hand so that they can exchange gentle kisses that soon become more breathless and urgent.  
  
Sherlock has resumed playing with John, teasing and circling, squeezing and pulling. John makes a sound deep in his throat in response and thrusts unconsciously forward. He worms his other hand in between them and pushes his pants down, and at the first brush of John's fingers on Sherlock's bare skin, everything slows, the atmosphere charged with something tenuous yet weighty. There is an almost exquisite care to the way they touch now; even their breaths seem to be constructed so as not to disturb the balance.  
  
"Maybe some lube?" John suggests at length.  
  
"No, like this, it's good, very good... John..." Sherlock clutches at John's arms to pull him closer, making sounds in the back of his throat in response to John's ministrations. They both look down to watch John's hand on him and his on John.  
  
"It's actually faintly ridiculous," Sherlock pants. "All this fuss for a bit of ... vascular dilation."  
  
"Speak for yourself, I'm going to be seeing stars in a ... Oh fuck yeah, just like that, bit faster," John growls.  
  
Sherlock obliges.  
  
"Should probably have put condoms on," John mentions breathlessly, but doesn't let up.  
  
"You want to stop now?"  
  
"Fuck no. Just... don't touch anything else."  
  
"Wasn't planning on it."  
  
"Oh God..."

&&&&&&

  
"Now was that ridiculous?" John speaks the words into Sherlock's bare chest, his lips brushing the damp sheen there. Just centimetres away, on the other side of muscle and bone, Sherlock's heart is slowly returning to its resting state.  
  
"Only slightly less than invading Afghanistan, but yes, utterly." Sherlock's fingertips skim lightly, distractedly, over John's back, tracing his shoulder blade.  
  
John lifts his head. When their eyes meet, they both smirk and start to chuckle. John ducks his head and rests his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
"Sherlock..." His smile is still audible. He puts his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and squeezes tightly. "I'm..." He lifts his head again to look Sherlock in the eye, his face full of fondness and affection and something much more profound as well. Catching the skittish look that's already forming on Sherlock's end, though, he immediately assures him, "Don't worry, I won't..." He runs his fingers through Sherlock's slightly sweaty curls and smiles in a way that's faintly wistful. "It's good, though, yeah?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says; solemnly, almost reverently. He wraps his arms around John's back and holds him against his chest.  
  
They lie like that for several minutes, just feeling each other's skin and breath and heartbeat, nothing between them but their own thoughts.  
  
Finally, John stirs. "Check-out's ten o'clock," he says. "You want to see about connections to Zurich?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't move or say anything for several more seconds. John finally makes a questioning sound, as if checking whether Sherlock heard him.  
  
Finally, Sherlock reaches over to the small table beside the bed and picks up his phone. He unlocks it, clicks through a few screens, and hands it to John. His other hand drops away from John's back and lands limply on the mattress. He turns his head away.  
  
John lifts himself off Sherlock's chest, supporting himself on one elbow. He frowns as he reads the text message.  
  
"What is this? 'Applause applause, to the victor go the spoils. Come collect your prize. Reichenbach.' What's Reichenbach?" John asks. The 'ch's come out like 'k's.  
  
"Reichenbach," Sherlock corrects his pronunciation of the velar fricatives. "It's a waterfall not far from here. And that," he says, nodding at the screen but not meeting John's eye, "is why we're here."  
  
"It's signed 'M'. Is this from Mycroft?" John asks, his expression quizzical.  
  
"Yes, John," Sherlock says sarcastically, "Mycroft is the mastermind behind the attacks on my street contacts and the murders of your wife and sister-in-law."  
  
John's mouth drops as he turns to Sherlock in horror. "This is that nut job? We came here on a summons from--" He pushes himself up further, completely off Sherlock. "No, we brought our kids here, did we seriously walk right in here with our two children to hand them over to-" John shoves the phone back at Sherlock, throws the covers back and gets out of bed, shaking with rage. He paces back and forth, naked, and scrubs his hands over his face several times, as if trying to wake himself up. He stops and points at Sherlock. "You--" he starts, but can't finish. He walks away again, banging himself on the back of the head with his fist.  
  
Sherlock hauls himself up into a sitting position. "Could you at least put some clothes on, John, that's rather distracting," he drawls.  
  
"I'll give you distracting, I'll--" John takes a step in Sherlock's direction, raising his hand as if to strike, but thinks better of it and shakes his head, laughing in an entirely humourless way. "Oh, my God. I knew, I _knew_ this was a terrible idea."  
  
"He's not interested in the children," Sherlock says, as if this were a point they'd discussed ad nauseum.  
  
"The hell-- He shot - Tristram." John flings his arm in the direction of the door, a parody of a smile distorting his features.  
  
"Technically, he didn't. It wasn't him at all, it was a hired gunman, and he wasn't even aiming for Tristram, we've been over this--"  
  
John points at him again. "Shut up. Shut your gob." He leans over, snatches up his pants from the floor and tugs them on.  
  
"You're not leaving." Sherlock scoots forward and pushes the covers off himself. It's not quite a question, but not quite an order either.  
  
"The hell I'm not." John tosses the bedding aside until he finds his undershirt.  
  
Sherlock gets up on his knees and leans over to grasp John's arm. "John, you can't."  
  
John shakes him off. "Yes, I can. Or what, have you blacklisted my passport or something? You did, didn't you. You and your bloody brother. I will fucking _swim_ back to England if I have to." He haphazardly grabs a shirt and trousers from the closet.  
  
Sherlock clambers off the bed and somehow comes up with a pair of pants, which he stumbles into on his way across the room. He ends up just behind John, although he refrains from touching him. "And Emily?"  
  
"Don't you dare bring her into this. She's--" John stops and sags. "Shit."  
  
Sherlock leans in closer, bracketing John against the closet with his body. The effect is more cocoon than threat. "I need you, John," he says. His voice is pitched low, somewhere between persuasion and supplication. "One more day. He wants me to meet him tomorrow. He was supposed to give us a week, but apparently he doesn't want to wait any longer."  
  
John's head whips around, his eyes flashing. "What does that mean, he was 'supposed' to give us a week? How do you-- Give me that." He steps away and holds one hand out, still clutching his clothes in the other.  
  
Sherlock searches his eyes, but John doesn't relinquish an inch of ground or an iota of his indignation. Sherlock reluctantly gives him the phone. "Mycroft's trying to trace back the sender. I've been stalling for time until we can-"  
  
John scrolls through the conversation on Sherlock's mobile. "These go back to ..." He covers his mouth with one hand. The colour drains from his face and a strangled sound comes out of his throat. "You've been in contact with him this whole time."  
  
"Not the whole time..." Sherlock mutters, but the protest doesn't even make it to half-hearted.  
  
John's eyes snap to Sherlock's, glittering with barely controlled fury. "For the past month," he says, his voice dangerously soft, "you have been flirting by text with the person who killed my wife and her sister, shot your son, and mutilated several innocent people-"  
  
Sherlock's face twists into a moue of disgust. "I wasn't flirting-"  
  
"--and this whole thing between you and me, what has that been?" John flicks a finger between them. His expression is unhappily close to mirroring Sherlock's. "Just a way of passing the time until he was ready for your big date? Need someone to practise on, did you?"  
  
"What was I supposed to do, John?" Sherlock protests loudly. "If I'd told you about this, you never would have come with me, and you and Emily would likely be missing something a good deal more vital than a couple of teeth!"  
  
John gives him a thunderous look. "You..." he starts to say, but instead shakes his head and slants his eyes away from Sherlock as if no words are sufficient to express the depth of his outrage.  
  
"I could no longer protect you," Sherlock spits out. "The bullet that hit Tristram was meant for you. We got lucky then, but that's all it was, and the airport was a closer call than I think you'd like to believe."  
  
"Mycroft--" John begins, but Sherlock shouts over him:  
  
"Mycroft is not a god, no matter how much he'd like to believe it! He's an over-ambitious bureaucrat with some good connections and a flair for the dramatic. His 'magical powers' are limited to wiretapping and accessing classified information. That's it. There is nothing on this 'M'-" Sherlock flings his arm derisively toward the phone in John's hand. "-in any of the files. He's calling himself Jim Moriarty, but we're not even certain that's his real name. He's a blank spot on the map, _here be dragons_."  
  
"And so this whole..." John breaks off, gesturing around the room.  
  
"I was trying to get something on him, waiting for him to drop some clue. Gathering data for Mycroft to have his experts triangulate back from so they can pinpoint where he is. We don't even know for sure that he's based in England."  
  
"You should have told me. Damnit!" John shouts, but immediately modulates his voice down to a hiss. "Sherlock, we've been through this before. You can't leave me out of the loop like this!" he says fiercely.  
  
Sherlock stares at him for a few seconds, then asks dully, as if he already knows the answer will be negative, "Would you still have come?"  
  
John exhales hard and presses his lips together. "Probably, yes. But I sure as hell wouldn't have brought my daughter along." He jabs a finger in the direction of the room where the children are sleeping.  
  
"So you would have left her back in England, what, with your sister?" Sherlock says, in a way that makes his opinion of that option all too clear. "That would have been an open invitation."  
  
"The safe house," John starts, but Sherlock talks across him: "Some of the security detail have families too. Who do you think is more valuable to them? Their children or ours?"  
  
"But bringing them here--"  
  
"He wants me," Sherlock cuts him off again bluntly. "And you are his means of ensuring that he gets me."  
  
John takes several breaths, trying to regain control over his temper. Finally, he asks carefully, "By 'you', you mean me...?"  
  
"You, Tristram, and Emily. All of you. Any of you," Sherlock tells him stiffly. "If I'd come on my own, he would simply have snatched one or more of you and had no qualms about subjecting you to the same treatment he gave my street informants in order to guarantee my compliance. This way, at least the integrity of your persons was ensured." Sherlock delivers the information without apology.  
  
John huffs out a laugh that's anything but amused. "That's what you meant when you said there was no danger for any of us anymore, as long as we didn't do anything stupid. As long as _I_ didn't do anything stupid. As if coming here in the first place weren't the stupidest thing we could possibly have done."  
  
"Yes," Sherlock agrees with a hint of defiance.  
  
"And that's how you knew Tonga wouldn't shoot you at the airport," John says as if it all makes sense now.  
  
"He was hardly going to harm the raison d'etre of the entire scheme." The 'obviously' remains unspoken but understood.  
  
John barks out a huff of dry laughter. "Oh my God, you self-involved prick! And what was all that with the teeth and the eyes then?"  
  
"Showing off. Letting me know how far his power extended, how precisely he could strike and how unbearably clever he is. Whetting my appetite, I presume," Sherlock says, as if the whole thing bores him.  
  
"All this could be yours..." John mutters darkly.  
  
"Something like that, yes."  
  
"And when you say he wants you, that means exactly..."  
  
"I'm not sure yet," Sherlock admits. "To work for him in some capacity. Planning undetectable crimes together. Possibly carrying them out. I presume he'll lay his entire nefarious plan out for me when we meet."  
  
John looks at him in horror. "You can't seriously still be thinking of going to meet him?"  
  
"Haven't I just made it clear that there is no other choice?" Sherlock snaps.  
  
"You'll be walking directly into a trap," John says, as if he doesn't think Sherlock's aware of the fact.  
  
"He's not going to hurt me!"  
  
"What, you think he's just going to have a nice little chat with you, present his plans for world domination, you'll say thanks but no thanks, and he'll let you walk away?"  
  
"This is the only way to find out what we're up against. He'll brag, want to impress me. He'll let something drop about his background, something he's planning, some little clue that he doesn't think is important. I have to find that chink in his armour."  
  
"I'm going with you," John announces flatly.  
  
Sherlock pauses for a beat then says softly, "I was rather hoping you would, yes."  
  
John holds his eye. His anger and unhappiness is still there, but there's determination and resolve, along with something that not even Sherlock's deception can extinguish. He takes a deep breath and prompts, "Tristram and Emily?"  
  
"They'll be perfectly safe here."  
  
John shakes his head. "No."  
  
"You can't be thinking of taking them with us," Sherlock says.  
  
"Then I'm sure you have a solution that us small-brained plebs would never happen upon."  
  
It's apparent, from the way Sherlock stares hard at nothing in particular for several seconds, that he hasn't. But then his eyes snap back to John's. "Irene." He whirls away, tapping his head with his knuckles.  
  
"You want to leave the kids with Irene?" The question contains both incredulity and a genuine uncertainty whether he heard correctly.  
  
"It's why she's here," Sherlock announces to the ceiling, as if he's just had a revelation.  
  
"What the hell does that mean now?"  
  
"That's what her 'contract' is!" Sherlock crows. "The singing is just a cover. She's here to ensure that the meeting can take place. Moriarty knows we'd never bring Tristram and Emily along to see him, and we wouldn't leave them behind alone, or with someone we didn't know and trust."  
  
"We trust Irene?" John asks, as if that's news to him.  
  
"No, of course not," Sherlock scoffs. "I mean, yes. I don't trust her, but she won't hurt the children. I believe she has some twisted, romantic sense that she's a mother lioness protecting her cub. In fact, I believe she would go to quite some lengths to do so. Which is another reason why I don't trust her. But I don't see any other choice."

&&&&&&

  
Emily's asleep. She drifted off sometime after Father finished his shower and John took his turn in the bathroom. Tristram actually fell asleep, too. At least, he doesn't remember John going back to the bedroom, but at some point he became aware of the shouting.  
  
Tristram's not really sure what it's about - they've only really got loud enough for the words to come through clearly a couple of times, and most of those have been bad words - but he can tell that both of them are upset.  
  
Tristram finds it upsetting as well. He doesn't want Father and John to stop being friends. Especially now that... well, especially now. Today was so good. On the other hand, they've had disagreements before. Lots of them. Although they're not generally so loud. Yet somehow things have always been better the next day. Plus, Father's still in the bedroom. He hasn't stormed out or kicked John out, like he would if it were Uncle Mycroft he were arguing with.  
  
Their voices have returned to a more normal volume now, although Tristram can still hear the two-toned conversation continuing. As the minutes tick by without any further outbursts, Tristram starts to relax. It's nice, knowing that Father will be here when he wakes. That Father will be here all night, in fact, just in the next room with John. And it's also nice, Tristram thinks with his last bit of consciousness, that John is here too.  
  
He must fall asleep again, because he finds himself waking up at some point later during the night. There's no light seeping in around the edges of the curtains, so it must still be well before dawn. He listens for what might have woken him but can't hear anything other than Emily breathing steadily on the other side of the mattress. Tristram turns carefully onto his other side to try and find a more comfortable position. He breathes in sharply and his heart jumps when he sees a faint, dark form in one of the chairs next to the sofa bed.  
  
"It's all right," Father's voice says softly. "It's me." A weak light comes on, illuminating his face. It's the screen light from his phone.  
  
"What's wrong?" Tristram whispers. His heart is still in his throat.  
  
"Nothing," Father says and switches off the light. "Go back to sleep."  
  
Has Father been sitting there every night? Keeping watch? Tristram thought he'd been staying in the bedroom with John, but maybe not. Maybe he hasn't been sleeping as soundly and happily as Tristram thought. He keeps his eyes on his father's outline until his heart slows and his eyes fall shut of their own accord.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

  
Jass - it turns out it's spelled with a j, not a y - is pretty complicated. It's not just the rules that make the game difficult, though; there are also all these unfamiliar cards. There's a king and an ace like in a normal deck, but instead of a queen and a jack there are two boy cards called 'over' and 'under'. There's a banner instead of a ten, and there are no cards under a six. Plus one of the nines is called Nell and she can beat the kings, and one of the unders is called The Peasant and he's even more powerful than the aces. Irene says there are several variations, but she only knows the one.  
  
Tristram is intrigued, but not very good at it. Irene takes the last trick to win the game. Again. She's won every single hand they've played so far. Which makes this her ninth victory. Tristram wonders how much longer they're going to keep playing.  
  
Emily must have a similar thought, because she asks, "When's my dad coming back?" for about the hundredth time.  
  
She's not really interested in the game. She's pretty much been watching the door ever since John and Father left. It's clear she isn't very happy about the situation. Not that it would have taken a genius to figure that out, the way she pouted and protested when her father told her she was going to have to stay in the room with Irene and Tristram while he and Father went out to run an errand. (Tristram knows it's a case, not an errand. He's not stupid.) To her credit, at least she didn't cry. Even if Tristram could see she wanted to.  
  
Tristram, surprisingly, isn't nearly as stressed about the whole thing as he perhaps might have expected to be, given everything that's been going on lately. Maybe it's because he's used to Father going out on potentially dangerous errands and leaving him behind. Or maybe it's because, despite the fact that the last time he was left in the care of a woman he only knew fleetingly, he ended up strapped to what he thought was a bomb, he feels relatively safe with Irene. She's his mother, after all. Something about that simple fact gives him enough confidence that he's able to sit here and concentrate on whether bells or acorns are trump this round. He wouldn't go out of the room with Irene, of course. But just sitting here at the table with the curtains drawn, trying to remember whether all the aces have been played yet... that's fine.  
  
Emily and Irene seem to be having something of a standoff over the question of when John and Father are coming back. Tristram knows grown-ups don't like it when you ask the same thing over and over. That's not just a quirk of his father's. Some of his teachers at school would also get a pained look on their face when one of the other children needed something explained more than two or three times. So he expects Irene will get exasperated and say, 'When he and Sherlock are done with their errand,' the way she has the other ninety-nine times. Instead she checks her watch.  
  
"Why don't I call him and see?" she offers.  
  
Emily perks up. "Okay," she says. She looks surprised, but she's not about to argue.  
  
Tristram's surprised too. Father is never to be interrupted when he's on a case. Least of all for something like to check when he's coming back. He'll be back whenever he's done, and he can't know when he's done until he is. But Irene wouldn't know that. Tristram's not about to point it out to her, either. He's getting a bit anxious himself, even if it hasn't even been an hour.  
  
Irene goes into the bedroom and closes the door all the way, which is odd. Why doesn't she want Tristram and Emily to hear her calling John, if all she's going to do is ask how much longer they'll be?

 

&&&&&&

  
"We should have come up here yesterday or even earlier, had a look around," John says grimly as he trudges behind Sherlock up the path. It's too narrow for them to walk side by side. There's snow up either side of the ravine, but the rocky path itself is merely wet. "We've no idea what we're walking into."  
  
"He's hardly going to have some sort of armed ambush set up," Sherlock scoffs. "This is a public path, hikers walk through here every day." It's another overcast day, and the mountains are shrouded in mist that hangs heavy and grey like cobwebs.  
  
"This is still incredibly stupid. You never go into an area you haven't scouted first. If I'd known about this earlier-"  
  
"You would have left," Sherlock says shortly.  
  
John stops. His jaw clenches and his nostrils flare. "You can't-" He falls silent as his phone buzzes. He and Sherlock exchange a look.  
  
"Go on," Sherlock says.  
  
John takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the screen. The corners of his mouth pull down. "It's Irene."  
  
"Either scenario three, four, or five then. Answer it." Sherlock steps in close and puts his head next to John's.  
  
John taps the screen to accept the call then holds the phone up between his and Sherlock's ears. "Yeah," he says. "How bad is it?" he asks after hearing her opening gambit. He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock when they hear the answer, but Sherlock shakes his head. "Yeah, he... I know it's upsetting," John tells Irene, "but he won't actually come to any harm. Have him lie down on his side and make sure his clothing's not constricting him. Emily knows how to-" He stops talking at the sharp, rapid interruption on the other end. "I'm not trying to- Of course I'm concerned, but-"  
  
Sherlock yanks the phone away from John and pushes the mute button.  
  
"You need to go," Sherlock snaps.  
  
"There's nothing I can do for him, and anyway it'd be over by the time I got back," John says stubbornly.  
  
"This is scenario four, John," Sherlock says, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child. "She's not going to give up. Go now before it turns into three." He thrusts the phone at John and pushes the button again to un-mute it.  
  
John glares at Sherlock but takes the phone. "Yeah, I'm... Yeah, sorry, still here. Just dropped the phone," he tells Irene. As she speaks, he closes his eyes and looks decidedly unhappy. "Yeah. Yes," he finally says. "I'm on my way." He ends the call and promptly tells Sherlock, "You're not going."  
  
"John." The word is reproach and plea all at once.  
  
"No," John says flatly. "Nope. I mean it. You're not- You're coming back too."  
  
"I'll be fine."  
  
"You'll be-" John looks around as if seeking confirmation from the rocks of how utterly unreasonable Sherlock is being. "You'll be fine? The last time you did something like this you ended up on your knees with a pistol two fucking inches from your skull." He holds his thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate.  
  
"And - I'm - fine," Sherlock grits out.  
  
John points an accusing finger at him. "You're only fine because I was there to take Moran out. If I leave you up here-"  
  
"He's not going to hurt me. He wants me for his plans. He'd hardly have gone to all this trouble just to blow my brains out. Anticlimactic," Sherlock sniffs, as if personally affronted that John would think him capable of giving so much as the time of day to someone with so little imagination.  
  
"Right, so I guess he just wants a tooth, then, what do you think? A finger maybe? An eye? I hear kidneys will bring in a bit of cash."  
  
"John, you have to trust me."  
  
"Yeah, that's..." John looks like he wants to say something else, but he stops himself, shaking his head. "Yeah. I have to, don't I? Because trust is the basis of our relationship, isn't it? Or whatever the hell this is. I don't even... " John holds both hands up as if to ward Sherlock off and takes a step back.  
  
Sherlock reaches toward John, but lets his arm fall again without touching him. "I trust you, John," he says fiercely. "I trust you wholeheartedly and without reservation. You are the only person..." He closes his eyes, as if pained. "I have to go," he says, his voice low and tight.  
  
"Yeah, me too," John says. The statement is laced with bitterness. "I have to go rescue our children from your creepy ex who's holding them hostage so that you can have a chat with your even more creepy... I don't even know what. Internet date? Archenemy? Do people still have archenemies?"  
  
"If they did, mine would be a meddlesome, self-righteous, mid-level bureaucrat with a prop umbrella and an overinflated sense of his own importance."  
  
John's eyes are hard and unyielding. "Not funny."  
  
"It was a bit funny," Sherlock cajoles.  
  
John still doesn't crack. "At least Mycroft has his priorities straight," he says, his voice as frigid as the snow around them. Then he turns and starts picking his way back down the path. He doesn't look back.  
  
Sherlock watches him until he disappears around a bend and he's left alone amidst the barren rocks. Then he starts up the path again.

 

&&&&&&

  
"How is he?" are the first words out of John's mouth when he bangs the door open, startling all three of them where they are still sitting at the table. "Tris, are you all right?" John makes a beeline for Tristram, kicking the door shut behind him.  
  
"Daddy!" Emily jumps up, her relief evident, and throws herself at him.  
  
John wraps one arm around her and pulls her along with him toward Tristram, who looks around him at the empty space behind John. What's going on? Where's Father?  
  
John crouches in front of Tristram's chair and puts his fingers around Tristram's wrist to check his pulse. "Did he lose consciousness at any point?" The question's obviously meant for Irene, who's stood up now and is drifting away toward the window.  
  
"No," she answers, sounding distracted.  
  
"How are you feeling, Tris?" John asks him, peering into his eyes in a doctor's examination kind of way even though he doesn't have his instruments out. Emily leans against his side, looking back and forth curiously between Tristram and her father.  
  
"I'm fine," he answers, but he's confused. Why should he have fainted? Does John think he's sick?  
  
"That's good," John says, and it sounds like he's relieved too. He lifts himself up into the chair that Emily vacated, then scoots it closer. He rests one hand on Emily's waist and pulls her down onto his knee. "Now," John says to Tristram once they're settled. "Do you want to tell me what set it off this time?"  
  
"What set what off?" Tristram asks, not following.  
  
John frowns a bit and glances at Emily, then Irene, as if checking whether anyone at all knows what he's talking about. Irene is standing at the slit in the curtains, parting them just enough with her red-painted nail to catch a glimpse outside. Tristram's heart flutters.  
  
"Your panic attack," John prompts him.  
  
"I didn't have a panic attack," Tristram says, watching Irene nervously. She really shouldn't be standing right in front of the window.  
  
"You said he was having a panic attack," John says. His eyes are on Tristram, but he must be speaking to Irene. He doesn't sound happy. "And step away from the window if you don't want there to be another one."  
  
Irene drops the curtain with an air of put-upon resignation. "He was very anxious," she says. "I may have been overcautious, as a new, inexperienced mother." She sounds neither cautious nor inexperienced, in Tristram's opinion.  
  
John turns his face down and away, but Tristram doesn't need to see his expression to know he's angry.  
  
"You... " John takes a moment to get himself under control. "You knew, didn't you? You know." He raises his head and fixes Irene with a look that's simmering with contempt, but also hurt.  
  
"He'll be fine, John," Irene says, perhaps aiming for reassurance, but at her words John springs out of his chair, narrowly missing dumping Emily on the floor. He has Irene pressed up against the wall with his arm across her throat almost faster than Tristram can register that he's moved.  
  
"You are going to fucking tell me right now where he's taking him."  
  
"Daddy!" Emily shrieks. Her fists come up to her cheeks. Tristram's not sure whether she's more shocked by the expletive or the attack.  
  
Tristram isn't shocked by either one. He's heard John swear before, and he wants to see what's going to happen. He especially wants to know where his father is, and it looks like John thinks Irene has the answer. He doesn't think John's really going to hurt her. She looks perfectly at ease with his weight pressing against her windpipe, at any rate.  
  
"I do like it rough, but perhaps not in front of the children," Irene purrs. Her red-painted lips curl into a smile, like she knows she's won, which is odd because it's John who has the upper hand.  
  
John slowly lifts his arm and takes half a step back. "It's all right, Ems," he says, but his voice doesn't sound reassuring at all. He flexes his hand at his side and continues to watch Irene. His eyes are like knives and fire.  
  
Comprehension slowly - too slowly, why is he so slow? - dawns on Tristram, and as it does, icy tendrils of uncertainty snake into his gut.  
  
"Where's my father?" Tristram asks, because it's the one question no one seems to be answering, and John said his questions were important. This one's very, very important.  
  
John tilts his head tightly in Tristram's direction, raising his eyebrows at Irene in a gesture that's both challenge and query.  
  
"He's meeting someone," Irene says. "A private business meeting." She lets her long, graceful fingers linger on her neck and doesn't let her gaze waver from John's.  
  
"When's he coming back?" Tristram asks. His mouth is dry. Because of course Father's coming back. He always comes back.  
  
"I'm sure I haven't the faintest," Irene says, rather shortly, as if she's tired of the topic. She steps around John. "And now if you'll excuse me, I have some things to take care of before tonight."  
  
John takes a step back and holds his hands up to show he's not going to stop her. His face looks like he's smelt something unpleasant. Tristram, on the other hand, lurches after her.  
  
"You can't just leave!" he blurts out. She can't, not without telling them where Father is! She obviously knows where he went and who he's with; more than John knows, anyway. If she tells them, John can go and get him. He can help him. Why did John come back without him anyway?  
  
Irene stops in her tracks, looking startled. "I'll be back," she says, sounding almost flattered that Tristram wants her to stay. He doesn't want her, though, he wants his father.  
  
Frustrated, Tristram rounds on John. "Why didn't you stay with him?" he pleads.  
  
John's glares at Irene, his nostrils flaring. "I tried to. Seems some people had other plans. You and him," John all but spits out at her. "Did you plan all this together? Hm?" His mouth twists in an ugly way. "Let me think I was going to be able to help just to play me for a stooge? Why even bother? Why not just tell me from the beginning?" He jabs a finger towards Emily, who's watching the exchange as wide-eyed as Tristram is. "I wanted to take Emily home yesterday when I found out about all this, but he stopped me. Asked me to stay one more day, to go with him today. Why? If you were just going to call me to heel."  
  
Tristram gets a tingly feeling in his head and stomach. A bad tingly feeling. John was going to take Emily and leave? Is that what the shouting was about? What was it that John found out that made him want to leave? Is he angry at Father? Are they really not boyfriends anymore? Is that why Father was sitting out in the living room in the middle of the night? All of a sudden, Tristram feels sick. Somehow he feels like this is his fault. He's not sure how, but somehow it has to do with him. John was going to take Emily and go back home and leave Tristram behind. With Father, of course, but he was still going to leave him behind. Maybe he wasn't even planning to say good-bye. Maybe he was going to wake Emily up in the middle of the night and sneak out like they did from Uncle Mycroft's.  
  
"I don't know what he told you, John," Irene tells him calmly, "but there was no agreement between myself and him. I have no agenda other than protecting Tristram. And Emily, by extension," she adds.  
  
"Why the hell did you call me back then?" John demands. "You knew there was nothing I could do for him, even if he was having a panic attack, which he wasn't."  
  
"Because I..." She glances at Tristram, then turns to face John tall and straight. "I made a deal."  
  
"Ohhh," John says, long and drawn-out, and it almost turns into a laugh at the end. "Of course. You made a deal. You're working with him, Sherlock said you were. So, what, if I hadn't come back you would have-" John presses his lips together and doesn't finish the sentence.  
  
Irene seems to understand what he was going to say anyway, even if Tristram doesn't - who is the 'him' that Irene's working with? - because she says, "But you did come back, John, and now you're free to take your daughter and go back to England."  
  
"And Tristram?" John points at him.  
  
"He'll come with me, of course," she says haughtily. "He is my son."  
  
The prickliness in Tristram's stomach turns even more sour at that, because he doesn't want to go with Irene! Father is going to come back, and he has to be here. He can't leave. He's about to tell Irene that when John groans.  
  
"Oh, God. No. Now I see. Get Sherlock out of the way so you can take Tristram. Yeah, that's not going to happen. Over my dead body." The way he says it gives Tristram shivers all over again, but this time they're good shivers. John understands, at least. He knows that Tristram can't go anywhere without Father.  
  
Irene clicks her tongue reproachfully. "I'm not going to kidnap him, for God's sake. I'm just going to make sure he gets home safely."  
  
"I'll do that," John tells her. It's not an offer. It's a statement of fact, and Tristram is surprised to find how enormously relieved he is to hear that John doesn't want to leave him behind after all. However, it seems he really has missed the salient fact:  
  
"I'm not leaving without my father," Tristram says firmly. And so there won't be any confusion, he explains, "Sometimes he has to go undercover for a day or two, but he always comes back. And I'm not supposed to go with anyone else. He said." Well, technically he did say that Tristram could go with John, but he doesn't think Father meant going to a whole other country with him. That was more for taking the Tube to Emily's aunts' house, or going to the park on Sunday morning.  
  
All of a sudden, Irene is beside him, kneeling on the floor in her pretty yellow dress. "Tristram," she says, taking his good hand between hers. Her hands are cool and smooth and her skin is soft like the little squares of coloured silk Uncle Mycroft sometimes wears in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "Everything is going to be fine," she says. Her dark brown eyes are clear and deep, and even though Tristram knows Father and John don't trust her, something tells him that this is the truth. "Your father's one of those people who always lands on his feet. Yes, of course he's coming back. But as you said, it may be a day or two. You can't stay here."  
  
"Why not?" It seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to do, in Tristram's opinion.  
  
"Because it's not safe," she says. Just like that, frank and without preamble; Tristram's a bit shocked. He thought the whole point of coming here to Switzerland was because it was safe, because no one knew where they were. Although Irene found them - Tristram's had his doubts for a while now as to whether it could truly have been a coincidence that she's here too - and the man that Father's meeting with found them as well. Unless Father found him? Either way, people know they're here. Maybe they should have stuck with being the Rathbones and the Browns after all.  
  
All of a sudden, Tristram remembers the way Father peeked out the window that first morning, when he thought Tristram saw something outside. The same way Irene peeked behind the curtain just now. An awful thought occurs to him: has someone been here, watching them this whole time? Did Father know it, or at least suspect? But Father said none of them were in danger, and he let them all go out, to restaurants and museums and the tops of mountains. He wouldn't have done that if he so much as suspected there was another man with a gun out there, waiting for an opportunity to shoot one of them. Of course he wouldn't.  
  
Before Irene can say anything more, John steps forward, holding out a hand like he's going to stick it right in between Irene and Tristram. "All right," he says sternly, "that's enough. There's no need to-"  
  
But Irene won't be put off. Her eyes are large and earnest, searching Tristram's face as she continues. "No, John," she says. "He deserves the truth. Ninety percent of fear is not knowing." She speaks to Tristram again: "You're a big boy and you understand these things. The people your father is dealing with aren't very nice."  
  
They rarely are. But Tristram is aware there are different shades of not nice. There are people who simply find it easier not to follow the rules, and there are those who don't care whether other people get hurt as long as they get what they want... and then there are those who try to hurt other people. Who like it. Tristram thinks Irene means those ones. But that doesn't change his mind.  
  
"No, I'm not... I can't..." Tristram flounders for a way to convince Irene and John that he can't leave.  
  
Before he can say anything more, help comes from an unexpected direction when Emily speaks up. "We can't leave without Sherlock," she insists. "We have to wait for him. If it were you," she says to her father, "we wouldn't leave without you. Sherlock wouldn't."  
  
Tristram is fairly sure she's right. If John had gone off by himself to meet with some bad people - and from everything Tristram's heard today, it's pretty clear that's exactly what his father's done - Tristram think it highly unlikely that Father would leave the country without him. John's important to Father. Really important. Tristram can see that. He knows that. Father would do everything he could to make sure John was safe. The same way he makes sure Tristram is safe.  
  
He's slightly surprised that Emily's able to predict Father's behaviour so well, though, and even more surprised that she's sticking up for him against her own father. Father and Emily haven't really interacted much; not as much as Tristram and John have, anyway. At least Tristram doesn't think so. Aside from that one time when Emily went down to get Father to read to them back at their flat - and she was only alone with him a couple of minutes that time - Tristram can't think of any other opportunities they might have had to have any sort of meaningful conversation outside of Tristram's earshot. But even so, she seems to have Father figured out fairly well; and for the first time, Tristram suspects maybe Father is important to Emily too, the same way John's become important to Tristram.  
  
John sighs. "All right, look. It's only been a couple of hours. We may be making something out of nothing here. Before we all panic, why don't I text him and see how things are going." He takes out his phone and starts composing a message as he talks. "He'll probably be back by dinner. And in the meantime we'll go ahead and pack so we're all ready to go when he does show up. All right? Everyone agree?" He raises his eyebrows hopefully and looks around at them.  
  
Emily appears to be satisfied, and Tristram agrees readily and with an immense sense of relief. They're going to wait here for Father. That's all he wanted. Irene says it's fine with her too, and that John should let her know as soon as Father answers his text. Tristram is a bit suspicious of how easily she's been convinced - especially as she was just insisting moments ago that it wasn't safe to stay - but she doesn't make any further mention of taking Tristram with her and leaves the room without a fuss. Tristram is nonplussed and confused by her behaviour; she was so concerned and protective before, and now it's as if she doesn't much care.  
  
It bothers Tristram more than he thinks it should. Given the choice between staying with John and waiting for Father or going with Irene, it's obvious that he would stay. But for some reason, he's a little bit disappointed that Irene gave up so easily. Just a teensy bit.  
  
As soon as the door closes behind Irene, John tells Tristram and Emily to start gathering their things and pack as much as they can while he takes care of the stuff in the bedroom.  
  
Emily gets both of their suitcases out of the closet and lays Tristram's on the couch so he can put his things in.  
  
"I wouldn't have left without you," she says as she starts transferring clothes from the closet to her own suitcase.  
  
Tristram blinks at her. "What?"  
  
Emily's eyes flicker in the direction of the bedroom. The door's open, and they can hear John moving around. She lowers her voice and explains, "My dad said he almost took me and went home last night. But I wouldn't have let him leave without you." She's perfectly solemn as she delivers this information, but also adamant, and Tristram absolutely believes that she, all of nine years old and barely thirty kilos, could make her former soldier of a father do anything at all she set her mind to. And she set her mind to Tristram.  
  
Tristram is... Something wells up inside him that's warm and bright and he actually gets a lump in his throat, which is stupid because it's nothing to cry over. It's just that it makes him feel really good. Not just the declaration of solidarity, but the fact that she wanted Tristram to know, that she must have seen how glad he was that John said he wasn't going to leave Tristram behind this time and that she wanted to reassure him that it would never have happened in the first place. Tristram swallows a few times and pretends the trousers in his hand need re-folding.  
  
"Do you think he's angry with my father?" he asks, even though it seems pretty clear the answer is 'yes'.  
  
Emily, however, has a different opinion. "I think he's angry with your mother," she corrects him. "She's the one who tricked him into coming back."  
  
"But there was something else, before that," Tristram argues. "I heard them rowing last night.  
  
Emily comes over and sits on the edge of the mattress, her packing forgotten for the moment. "What did they say?"  
  
Tristram sits down too and leans in close so he can keep his voice low. "I couldn't hear very much. But your father sounded angry. And then with what he said, that he was going to leave... I don't think that was because of Irene because that didn't happen until today."  
  
Emily considers this for a few seconds, but finally says, "Well, whatever it was, it can't have been that bad because my dad ended up staying anyway. And they didn't look angry when they left this morning," she points out.  
  
That's true. Although there was still something off. There was none of the casual talk and easy smiles that have come to mark their fathers' interactions. Instead, they were short and to-the-point. Not angry, just businesslike. Tristram assumed it was because they were focused on their 'errand', but with all the other evidence it's beginning to look like something else.  
  
"They didn't seem very happy either," Tristram says glumly. "And my father didn't spend the night in the bedroom. He was sitting out here-"  
  
"Hey, Tris," John calls out, interrupting them. He comes out of the bedroom, looking a bit red in the face. "Do you know where your passport is?"  
  
"No. Maybe my father has it."  
  
John looks grim. "Yeah, I think he must."  
  
It sounds like John doesn't think that's a good thing. But surely it's good if his father has his passport. That way it won't get lost. They're waiting for his father to come back anyway before they leave. But John disappears back into the bedroom, leaving the passport question open. Tristram doesn't have a chance to worry about it either, because beside him, Emily starts talking again.  
  
"My parents..." she says, fiddling with the zipper of Tristram's suitcase. She sighs a little, a kind of a resigned sound, and looks at Tristram. "When my mum was still alive, they'd argue sometimes. Not proper rows, but sometimes they'd yell a little or ... I don't know. Just argue."  
  
"About what?" Tristram is immensely curious about this new information. He was always under the impression that Emily's mother and father loved each other a lot. But then they wouldn't have argued, would they?  
  
"I don't know..." Emily looks away and twists on the zipper some more, but she doesn't stop talking. "I was littler so I didn't really pay attention, and I usually went to my room and put my pillow over my head anyway so I wouldn't have to hear them. But one time my mum came in and found me like that, and she said just because they didn't always agree didn't mean they didn't love each other, and me." She says all of this practically in one breath, and when she's finished, she blinks her blue eyes up at Tristram as if she's not sure how he's going to take what she's said.  
  
But Tristram understands that she's not really talking about her parents. Well, she is, but she's also talking about their fathers. She's trying to tell him that two people can argue and still love each other. But do Father and John love each other in the first place? Do you have to love someone to be their boyfriend? They fancy each other, certainly; Emily said her father told her that, and Tristram agrees with the assessment based on all the evidence he's seen. Kissing and hugging is pretty much the definition of fancying someone. But they're not married, and John said it wasn't something they were considering. And don't people who love each other get married?  
  
On the other hand, there's the way they look at each other sometimes, that secret way when they think no one's watching. Is that love? And there's also the fact that Father tries to protect John the same way he tries to protect Tristram. Does that mean he loves them both? Tristram knows it's possible to love more than one person, so the thought doesn't make him jealous. In fact, it makes him feel stunned, almost, like when something's really obvious and you didn't see it and all of a sudden it clicks. Like everything is perfectly right and aligned, at least for the moment. It's almost easier for Tristram to call what's between Father and John 'love' than to apply the same label to Father and Tristram's relationship, if only because he's spent so much time thinking about Father and John lately, and it seems that he's being inexorably pushed toward that conclusion.  
  
But if people who love each other want to live together (with or without getting married) and spend time together and protect each other and do what they think is best for each other and make each other happy ... Tristram starts to get a bit dizzy with the implications. Father does all of those things for Tristram, or tries to, at least. Even the part about wanting to live together - which someone else might say is simply the result of circumstances rather than a conscious decision or desire on Father's part, whereas in actual fact, Tristram lives with Father because Father _wants_ him there.  
  
Uncle Mycroft would have taken Tristram if Father hadn't wanted him - the guardianship makes that clear. And maybe Irene would even have come back for him, if Father had told her he didn't want to be stuck with a baby. But Irene left him with Father because she _knew_ he'd take good care of him. Father said himself it wasn't easy; certainly, Tristram can see now how much of a hindrance it must have been for Father to care for Tristram before he could walk and talk and dress himself and cook and know better than to touch human brains without gloves or mix sulfuric acid and ammonia. Even now, it's sometimes a bit of a shuffle to get Tristram properly supervised when Father's working on a case. But Father's put up with the inconvenience for years, which must mean - Tristram's mind boggles a little - that in some way, he is _more important_ to Father than his work. He almost shies away from the thought, it's so fragile, but it seems almost incontrovertible that Father must, in fact, love Tristram. Quite a lot.  
  
Just then, John comes bustling back out and starts collecting the things that are lying on the table. "You two still working hard or hardly working?" he jokes, looking over at them where they are both still sitting on the couch bed beside Tristram's practially empty suitcase. "Tris, you need any help?"  
  
Tristram takes a deep breath, trying to shake off the emotions crowding in on him. "No, I can do it," he says, picking up a stray sock from the floor as proof.  
  
"I called your uncle and told him about the passport," John says as he closes and unplugs Father's computer. "He said he can have another one expressed by tomorrow, so there's nothing to worry about."  
  
Tristram wasn't worried. Because Father apparently has Tristram's passport, and they're waiting for him anyway. Unless he loses it - he's fallen into bodies of water a couple of times and lost his wallet and keys to the sludge, so perhaps it's not such a bad plan to have a backup passport on the way.  
  
They have everything packed by dinner time. John decides to order room service rather than go out - not even to the hotel restaurant - in case Father comes back.  
  
He doesn't.  
  
After dinner, John says he thinks it would be a good idea to take Tristram's stitches out now, especially if they're going to be travelling soon. Tristram is very happy about that; not only because taking the stitches out should make his back itch less, but also because it means that he's halfway done with getting better. Tristram can't wait to show Father.  
  
John says that Emily can be his assistant, if it's okay with Tristram, and of course it is, especially because Emily looks so enthusiastic at the prospect.  
  
So all three of them go into the bathroom and Emily gets to scrub up just like a real doctor and put on a pair of gloves, even if they do dangle dangerously loose at the ends of her fingers. Then she hands her father the things he needs from his medical bag and holds the basin so he can deposit the little stiff black threads into it after he snips them and pulls them out of Tristram's skin with the tweezers. It tickles and pokes but Tristram tries really hard not to move.  
  
When he's done, John takes a picture with his phone to show Tristram. Tristram's not expecting the bright red lines still criss-crossing his back. He thought the skin would all be smooth and pale again. He realises with a sinking heart that he still has a ways to go before he's fulfilled his end of his deal with Father. Of course, his cast won't be coming off for a few more weeks, but maybe this is going to take even longer.  
  
"How much longer is it going to take to get better?" he asks, staring at the image on the screen.  
  
John peels his gloves off and drops them into the bin. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You can still see all the cuts."  
  
John sits back down on the edge of the bathtub. He rests his elbows on his knees and folds his hands. "The cuts are healed up, but yes, you can still see where they were," John agrees. He's speaking in a slow, careful way that Tristram's never heard from him before. Maybe it's his official doctor voice. "It's all new skin and I've been poking at it," John explains, "so that's why it looks so red. The colour will fade eventually. It will get pink and then white, but it could take a couple of years. The cuts were pretty deep, Tris. They're going to leave scars."  
  
Tristram moves over to stand in front of the mirror and tries to twist his neck around so he can see his back. His disappointment over what he thought was a delay in the healing process has turned into glee. He's going to have honest-to-goodness scars, just like Father. Not just little ones like on Father's hands that you have to hold really still and find the right angle to see them either. "Cool," he breathes out. Although no one will really be able to see them under his shirt, which is a bit of a shame.  
  
"Maybe they'll end up looking like a map of the Underground!" Emily says. "Like on Dumbledore's knee. Look, this could be the Jubilee Line right here!" She traces her finger down Tristram's back. It tickles, and he twists away, laughing.  
  
John's eyebrows rise and his face opens up, all the concern-creases turning around to go the other way. "And here I was, trying to break it to you gently. Should have known." He reaches out and ruffles Tristram's hair. Tristram grins.  
  
They go back out to the living room and John lets them order a movie in English from the pay-per-view channel. It looks kind of like the _Wallace and Gromit_ movie he and Emily watched at her house a few weeks back, but it's about some pirates and a dodo bird instead of a funny man and his clever dog. Tristram likes it, but it also makes him think about that poem again, about the man going to sea - the poem that is now indelibly associated with his father in his mind. And that, in turn, reminds him that Father still isn't back. He also hasn't responded to John's text. John doesn't say this, but he keeps checking his phone and making increasingly unhappy faces at the empty inbox.  
  
When the movie's over, they put their pyjamas on and John sits on the bed with one arm around each of them and reads three chapters of the _Goblet of Fire_. Tristram can tell it's both to distract them from Father's continued absence and to give Father just a little longer before John has to admit he's not coming back that night. Tristram dares to snuggle in against John just a little bit, and is rewarded by a squeeze and the rub of John's thumb on his shoulder. It makes him feel traitorously content, with Father still out there talking to those bad people. Hopefully just talking. Tristram turns that thought off and concentrates on the Harry's first task with the golden egg instead.  
  
Finally, John makes Tristram and Emily get under the covers and turns off the light. Rather than retreating to the bedroom, though, he settles himself in the same chair Father sat in the previous night.  
  
"Are you going to wait for Sherlock?" Emily asks.  
  
"Yeah, might do."  
  
"Did he ever text back?" Tristram asks. He can see the faint glow of John's phone in his hand as he turns it on.  
  
John clears his throat. "No. But don't worry, I'm sure he's fine. He's probably just busy." Tristram can't see his face, but his voice sounds like he's trying to be optimistic. Trying and not entirely succeeding.  
  
Because it's almost midnight, and the person or people Father went to meet aren't very nice. Possibly they are even the people they came here to get away from in the first place.  
  
Father always comes back, Tristram reminds himself. Always. And they still need to go to Angelo's when his hand is better (his back being ticked off now). That was a promise. A vow.  
  
John keeps his phone on. Maybe he's sending another text. Tristram keeps his eyes on the glow as long as he can, but he's asleep before John turns his phone off.

&&&&&&

  
John is waiting at the door when the light tap sounds.  
  
"Quiet, the kids are sleeping," he whispers as Irene slips in.  
  
He leads her through the living room by the light spilling out from the open bedroom door. Tristram and Emily don't stir.  
  
As soon as they are in the bedroom, John closes the door and hands Irene his phone so she can see the text: 'May be a couple of days. Take kids home. Properly. SH'  
  
"Anyone could have got hold of his phone," Irene says scornfully and gives the phone back to John.  
  
"Yeah, it's..." John clears his throat and looks down at the screen. "'Properly'. It's something... No one else would know about it."  
  
Irene eyes John, this time with interest. "Really. Well, be that as it may, that isn't a legally binding document. You can't transport him. I can."  
  
"I'll get something from Mycroft," John argues. "He's sending the replacement passport anyway." He starts to bring up the directory on his phone.  
  
"I'm beginning to suspect you don't trust me." The statement is teasing, but there's a warning behind it that demands attention.  
  
John returns it with a not-so-subtly veiled warning of his own. "Now why would that be, I wonder?"  
  
Irene's hand darts out to cover the screen of John's phone so he can't make the call. She drops all pretence, her eyes turning hard and her next words coming out clipped and precise. "You're going to have to. We have a small window - a very small window - to get back on British soil. Whatever small powers of protection you believe Mycroft Holmes might have - they don't reach far across the Channel, and they certainly don't reach outside the EU. You don't know Jim Moriarty, and believe me, you don't want to. Capricious doesn't even begin to cover it. Sherlock's message-" She nods at the phone between their hands. "That says he's bought us some time to get Tristram and Emily to safety. It may not even be 24 hours. You need to stop trying to second-guess me and get your daughter out. Now, on the next plane."  
  
"We'll travel together then."  
  
Irene returns his stare, apparently weighing the offer. Finally, she acquiesces. "Fine. See if you can get four seats out of Zurich tomorrow. If nothing's available, try Geneva."  
  
"And what will you be doing?"  
  
"I think you'll be happier not knowing. But John... no matter what you may think of me or what may happen, I'd like you to remember my first priority is Tristram's safety. And I'll do the best I can for you and Emily too."  
  
"And yourself, of course," John says sourly.  
  
Irene's lips spread in a smug smile. "Well, that goes without saying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie they watched was 'Pirates: An Adventure with Scientists', in which Martin Freeman voiced one of the characters.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as ever to ruth0007 and dioscureantwins for love and beta reading!

**Chapter Fourteen**

  
Tristram cannot let himself think about them: Father and John and Emily. Emily especially, because Father's been in sticky situations before and he's always got out of them, and John used to be in the army - and he seems like the kind of person who can take care of himself, especially the way he had Irene up against the wall, ready to crush her trachea before anyone had so much as blinked - but Tristram can't help remembering Emily being dragged away, kicking and screaming, by her Aunt Claire Friday Afternoon at the warehouse. And Aunt Claire wasn't even that big.  
  
Irene said there were bad guys on the train, the same ones they were trying to get away from in the first place, and Tristram cannot let himself think about one of them getting his hands on Emily. The only thing that stops the awful, awful image from overtaking Tristram is the knowledge that John wouldn't let them. John would not let anyone touch Emily. 'Over my dead body', he said to Irene when she talked about taking Tristram back to England, and Tristram's not even his son. He's just a friend. That was a bad thing for Tristram to remember, he realises too late. The line about John's dead body. This is why he cannot let himself think about it.  
  
There's a crushing guilt on top of everything else too, because he didn't actually go with Irene in order to get away from the bad guys. He went with her because he thought she was going to take him to his father. Even though he knew that meant leaving John and Emily behind on the train with the bad guys. He was selfish. Not that he could have done anything about it if he'd stayed, but now he doesn't know where any of them are.  
  
Except for Irene: she's sitting at the desk on the other side of the low-ceilinged living room in the cramped little cottage she brought him to. The armchair he's curled up in smells like the stuff Mrs Hudson sprays around their flat when she gets in one of her tidying moods. Irene's writing and writing, something in longhand. She told him there are certain things you don't want to leave an electronic trace of.  
  
'We have to move fast now, Tristram,' she'd said, wrapping her fingers around his arm the second John and Emily went through the hissing door at the end of the carriage, heading for the loo. Irene's eyes were big and intent. He'd thought they were earnest too, but now he thinks he was wrong. 'Someone has followed us onto this train, and I don't intend to let them catch us. Do you trust me?' she asked him.  
  
Tristram couldn't even respond to that last bit - couldn't think about what it meant - because he was stuck on the first part. If they needed to get away, why had she waited until John and Emily left to say something? They should all go together, surely.  
  
And so he asked, 'What about John and Emily?'  
  
But Irene said, 'They don't want John and Emily, Tristram. They want you.'  
  
Tristram's heart froze at that, only to be unfrozen by his confusion a moment later. John was the one they'd wanted, not Tristram. Even back at the warehouse, they hadn't really wanted him; he'd just been a way to get to Father, and they'd never actually hurt him. They could have done, but they hadn't. None of that mattered though, because whether Tristram was the one they were after now or John, that didn't explain why they had to leave right away, before John and Emily got back.  
  
He didn't get any further than saying, 'Why can't we-' before Irene's hand tightened on his arm. It didn't quite hurt, but there was an unpleasant pinch.  
  
'Because the four of us together are -' she started to answer his unasked question, but fell silent as someone passed by their seats. It was a woman with long, black hair and dark rings drawn around her eyes and very tight clothes. Was that one of the bad guys? She didn't look at them, but Irene waited until she disappeared into a seat several rows back before continuing, this time in a sharp hiss: 'Because Emily is a liability and John won't take directions from me. What do you think your father would do? Take you alone to safety, or sit here and wait for all of us to be caught?'  
  
There was a time when Tristram wouldn't have hesitated with his answer, but at that moment he wasn't so sure. Father had wanted all of them to come to Switzerland, even though Emily didn't know how to escape a pair of handcuffs and John didn't seem to take directions from Father all that well either. Would Father have left John and Emily behind? Although it's true that he sort of did already. But Irene didn't give Tristram a chance to answer. She clamped her hand around his good wrist and stood up. Tristram reached automatically for his backpack, but Irene murmured, 'No, it has to look like we're coming back,' and stepped out into the aisle.  
  
That was Tristram's first mistake. His phone was in that backpack. He couldn't use it in Switzerland, of course, but he'd taken it along anyway because John had told him always, always to keep his phone with him. John had also said never to leave it in his school bag or jacket because then he might not have it on him when he needed it, and so perhaps that was actually Tristram's first mistake: not carrying the phone in his trousers. At any rate, it got left behind, so he's not able to try and contact Uncle Mycroft (or his father or John) now. He's not sure he'd be able to use his phone from here anyway, so perhaps it's a moot point. It still nags at him.  
  
Tristram's second mistake - and this is where the regrets really begin - is that he went with Irene at all. Because surely he could have done something else. Maybe he could have yanked his hand away - although she had a pretty good grip, but he might have caught her off-guard - and run to where John and Emily were. Or he could have sat back down and refused to move, or simply shouted out for John. But he had that tantalising thought in the back of his mind - maybe even a little further forward - that Irene knew where Father was; that Irene didn't like John and maybe wanted Father back, and was trying to give John the slip so that she and Father and Tristram could be together. That maybe there weren't any bad guys at all.  
  
It was completely stupid; Tristram sees that now. It's not even as if Tristram wants that. Irene doesn't fit into their life, and he doesn't think she wants to, either. Not like that, anyway; not living in a tiny flat with mismatched furniture and diseased kidneys in the fridge and the police - and the not-so-occasional homeless person - knocking on their door at all hours of the day and night. Knocking, of course, because Father got annoyed at the bell when it kept going off while he was trying to work out a song on his violin, and unscrewed it from the wall and put it in the freezer. Tristram thinks it's actually still there, even though that was months ago. No, Tristram can't visualise Irene in the midst of all of that.  
  
Quite aside from the fact that Irene and Father, for all that they were civil to each other the two times Tristram saw them together, don't make each other laugh the way John and Father do. They don't look at each other and seem to say lots more with their eyes and their hands and their shoulders and knees than comes out of their mouths. It doesn't make Tristram happy to think about Father and Irene together the way it does thinking about Father and John together. And it doesn't wrench at Tristram to think that Irene and Father might not actually like each other all that much the way it does when he thinks about the argument two nights ago, when John said he was going to take Emily and leave Tristram and Father behind.  
  
But Tristram didn't think of all those things right there on the train, with Irene's hand around his wrist. All he had in mind was the vague hope of seeing his father again, and the convenient excuse of having to get away from the bad guys - even if Tristram never saw any evidence of them himself. And so rather than doing any of the things he could have - should have - done, Tristram followed Irene obediently through the carriage in the opposite direction from where John and Emily had gone. He is deeply ashamed to admit that he was even looking forward to a bit of an adventure with Father again, like the time they escaped from the hospital.  
  
They walked through three more carriages to the snack bar, where Irene told the lady behind the counter that if a man came asking after them, she should say they'd been in and already gone back to their seats. Instead of actually going back, though, Irene led Tristram onward to the first class carriage and found them two seats. As soon as she sat down, she took out her phone and sent a text.  
  
Tristram was convinced, right then, that she was texting his father. That perhaps his father was disguised as one of the other first-class passengers and was going to turn around and pull off his moustache or stand up and unhunch his back. But he wasn't, and he didn't. Tristram knows that Irene texted John at some point to let him know they hadn't been kidnapped, but this seems too soon. He doesn't think she could have risked informing John until they were off the train. Maybe she was contacting some other accomplice of hers - or maybe it had nothing at all to do with Tristram.  
  
At any rate, as soon as she'd finished, she stood up again and the train began to slow. Irene led Tristram to the exit at the very front of the carriage, and as soon as the train stopped, she reached up over the door on the wrong side, unlocked it with the square-headed spanner she all of a sudden had in her hand, and opened it onto the track. Tristram has to admit he was a little bit excited at this point. The action smacked of something his father would do.  
  
After checking quickly for any approaching trains, she bustled Tristram down onto the track, helped him up onto the opposite platform under the shocked stares of the tourists and commuters, and that was pretty much that.  
  
Tristram can only assume that the bad guys lost their trail and left John and Emily alone, because he hasn't heard anything more about John and Emily since, and he won't let himself think about it beyond that. They should be back in London by now, at their house, with Emily's aunts. That is all Tristram allows himself to think. Another thought sneaks in anyway: maybe they are at Tristram's flat, with his father. But if that's the case, then Tristram was woefully, horribly wrong, and it's entirely his fault that he's here and not with them.  
  
Because Irene didn't end up bringing him to his father; they've been in this creaky old cottage for two days now and it hasn't stopped raining the whole time. He thinks they're in Ireland. They flew from Mulhouse to Dublin anyway, but despite his best efforts, he fell asleep in the car that Irene hired at the airport and didn't wake up until they were pulling off the main road. It was dark by then, and all he could tell was that they weren't in a city. The low light of the headlamps didn't reveal much more than trees and fields and low stone walls on either side of the road.  
  
Even though it all seemed like the whole thing was a spur-of-the-moment, mad dash trying to keep them one step ahead of their alleged pursuers, Tristram sees now that she must have planned it all meticulously. His passport, the flight from Mulhouse, the car waiting for them in Dublin. To say nothing of the house. It's not her house; Tristram knew that right away from the furniture and his deduction was confirmed by the fact that she had to rummage around in cupboards and drawers looking for things the first night. Tristram knows it's technically possible that she went online and set up the rental sometime during their flight, but there were clothes more or less in his size in one of the dressers. Irene called it a stroke of luck. Tristram didn't say anything, but that was his first clue that things might not have been as they appeared.  
  
He actually asked her about the passport when she showed it at the airport, crossing over into France. It was kind of cool: half the airport was in Switzerland and half was in France. They were flying out of the French side, so they had to cross the border inside the airport.  
  
Tristram had stared at the maroon booklet as she slipped it back into her purse once they were past the border checkpoint.  
  
'Did John give you my passport?' he asked. After all the fuss John made about not wanting Irene to take him - and going to the extra trouble of having another passport sent - Tristram found it odd that John would have voluntarily surrendered it to Irene.  
  
'No, I found it lying around in your hotel room,' Irene had said casually. 'Terribly careless of your father and John. Anyone could have picked it up. I thought it best that I hold on to it. And look how lucky it was that I did!' She beamed at him and reached down to take his hand, swinging it casually as they walked toward their gate.  
  
'John was looking for it,' Tristram told her, becoming slightly cross because John and Uncle Mycroft both went to extra trouble over the missing passport. He didn't pull his hand away from Irene's, though. 'He thought my father had it.'  
  
Irene got a little line between her eyes as her face adopted a look of concern. 'Oh, dear. I hope he wasn't too terribly worried. If only he'd asked me.' Then her expression cleared, and she said in a way that was certainly meant to be reassuring, 'But we were going to travel together anyway, so it didn't matter who held onto it.'  
  
Tristram supposes, thinking back on it now, that that's true, but wouldn't it have behooved Irene to mention she'd picked up the passport when John came back? On the other hand, maybe she was so startled by the way John burst into the room and then put his elbow into her throat that she forgot. Or, like she said, didn't think it was important because they were going to be together anyway.  
  
But they weren't together, and didn't it turn out to be terribly convenient that she happened to be the one with his passport? So convenient that she must have known she was going to need it, and that she and Tristram wouldn't be with John when they crossed the border. Tristram didn't question the fact that there were tickets waiting for them at the check-in counter at the time, either; he was too busy trying very hard to concentrate on his breathing. There was no open gallery in Mulhouse like there had been at the London airport, but there were the same kind of luggage trolleys and the same smell of aircraft exhaust and too many people for Tristram to keep his eye on all of them. He managed, but he wasn't able to ungrit his teeth until they were seated on the plane and he got a headache almost immediately after takeoff.  
  
So he didn't think about the tickets then. But now he's had two days to go over and over those hours in his mind, and he's realised that she must have ordered those tickets earlier, just like she must have set things up here with the house. Maybe, in fact, John was right when he accused Irene of just waiting until Father was gone so she could take Tristram.  
  
He is thus not entirely sure whether he's been kidnapped or not. It's not tense and scary like the time Emily's Aunt Claire took them to the warehouse in the car, and certainly no one's tried to do anything like tie him up or threaten him. But Irene won't let him call Uncle Mycroft even though she has a working phone (he got his hands on it once when she went to the loo, but it was locked).  
  
Tristram also hasn't been allowed to go out of the house... although 'allowed' is perhaps the wrong word to use. Irene hasn't gone out either, and maybe that's only to do with the miserable weather. There was food in the kitchen when they got here, and other supplies, but if they stay much longer they'll eventually need to go out. There are no other houses visible from any of the windows. Just moors and, in the distance to the north, what looks like a forest. The road that brought them here must lead somewhere, though. All Tristram would need to do is keep walking. He'd come across someone who might help him eventually. If he didn't get shot first. So he hasn't tried yet.  
  
He's still holding out hope that his father's going to come to them, as soon as he's finished with the men he was meeting in Switzerland. The more time passes, though, the more that hope dwindles. But if they're not waiting for Father, what then?  
  
Irene is no help, of course. When he asks why they came here and when they can leave, all she does is say things like 'Isn't it fun to have a bit of time to get to know each other better?' and 'It doesn't make it happen any quicker if you keep asking,' and gets this kind of brittle smile that tells him to back off. Tristram is too acquainted with adult methods of obfuscation not to recognise that he's being given the runaround. In Tristram's opinion, it hasn't actually been much fun, perhaps because Irene is generally busy with her own secretive tasks.  
  
Tristram looks down at the big, full-colour book on the Birds of Ireland in his lap that he found on one of the bookshelves. Most of the other books are the kind of thing Mrs Hudson likes but his father would use - and has done - only for kindling, but there's a small selection of books on travel and nature that have been keeping Tristram occupied. He skims the text in front of him briefly with one eye on Irene when something makes him do a double take. There: it's his name! Harbinger. His middle name, anyway. He forgets about Irene for the moment and reads more carefully:  
  
 _Named after its distinctive call, the cuckoo is renowned as a harbinger of springtime._  
  
Tristram knows - because Uncle Mycroft told him once - that his mother named him Harbinger as a way of getting back at his father because Father had said a baby was a harbinger of all the things he didn't want. Like being part of the rat race and picket fences and minivans. Tristram's not sure about the fences and minivans, but the rat race sounds kind of interesting. Still, Father apparently has negative associations with all of them, and that made Tristram think that a harbinger was always something bad. But here it says that the cuckoo is a harbinger of something good. At least he thinks so. People like springtime, don't they? Tristram likes the thought that he might also have brought good things to his father's life. He's pretty sure they've avoided the rats and pickets so far. He reads on:  
  
 _The song is probably one of the most recognisable and well-known of all bird species. Despite its obvious song, it is relatively infrequently seen. In flight, it can be mistaken for a bird of prey such as a sparrowhawk. Adult females can appear in one of two forms. One is similar to the male but the breast is buff coloured with dark barring; the other form is reddish brown. It is a brood parasite, which means it lays eggs in the nests of other bird species. The common cuckoo has also occurred as a vagrant in countries including Barbados, the United States, Greenland, the Faroe Islands, Iceland, Indonesia, Palau, Seychelles, Taiwan, and China._  
  
Tristram wonders whether Irene has been to all those places. It doesn't say Singapore, he notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text on the cuckoo is a combination of quotes from the following sites:
> 
> http://www.birdwatchireland.ie/IrelandsBirds/Cuckoos/Cuckoo/tabid/1096/Default.aspx  
> http://www.habitas.org.uk/priority/species.asp?item=47  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_cuckoo  
> http://www.arkive.org/cuckoo/cuculus-canorus/image-A23152.html
> 
> It really does say the line about the cuckoo being a harbinger of springtime. I couldn't believe I was lucky enough to stumble on that little gem.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ruth0007 and dioscureantwins for the invaluable feedback and help with rewriting this chapter.

**Chapter Fifteen**

  
"Sherlock! Thank God-" John stands back from the door to let him in. Outside, a car can be heard driving away into the night.  
  
Sherlock pushes past him into the house. "Get your things."  
  
He stops a few steps inside the entryway, the energy thrumming off him. He has heavy stubble on his cheeks and his eyes are bloodshot yet bright.  
  
John is momentarily stunned, both by the sight of Sherlock and by the demand. "What's going on? Where have you been, what happened?"  
  
"I do not have time for your questions," Sherlock bites out. "I need to get my son back, and I do not intend to let the same thing happen to you and Emily as happened to him while I'm doing that."  
  
John's expression shifts from concern and confusion to anger. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"It means, John, that I clearly can't trust you to take care of one simple task - getting yourself, Emily, and Tristram to safety - so I'm going to have to do it for you."  
  
John's nostrils flare and his fists clench as he makes a visible effort not to explode. "Tell me what you're talking about," he says. His voice is low, veering towards a threat.  
  
"You let Irene take Tristram to force my compliance with Moriarty. I cannot let that happen again. Thus, you and Emily will be brought to a secure facility."  
  
John's eyebrows shoot up, along with his hands. "Okay, whoa. First of all, I didn't let her do anything, she took him. You mean that wasn't what you intended?"  
  
"Obviously not!" Sherlock cries, as if the mere thought were insulting. "I intended him to go with you. Thus my leaving his passport in your bag along with the letter giving you permission to take him across the border," he all but spits out.  
  
John gapes. "You never- I tore the room apart hoping you'd done something exactly like that, but there was nothing. She must have got hold of it before me somehow." He grimaces and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead in realisation. "She was in the room alone with the kids all morning. That's why she needed me out..."  
  
"The passport is immaterial. I know you got a duplicate from Mycroft. The point," Sherlock reiterates, exploding the p, "is that she walked off with him. When you went back to the hotel, I assumed the children were safe in your charge. What was it you said? When you're part of a team, you trust that everyone's doing what they're supposed to? That was your part."  
  
John shakes his head, an incredulous almost-smile forming. "Nope. No. That's not fair. I did everything we agreed on. _You_ never told me about your contingency plans." He thrusts a finger in Sherlock's direction. "If I'd known about the passport, I would have realised she was up to something right away. I would never have let my guard down like I did."  
  
"And yet you did."  
  
John stares at Sherlock, his mouth a thin line. He doesn't say anything for several seconds. "Yes, all right," he finally agrees. "I should never have left him alone with her. I accept that. You're right. But her taking him _was_ one of the scenarios we discussed," he shoots back. "I thought, afterwards, when she sent me that text, that you and she had arranged it that way."  
  
Sherlock is suddenly alert. "What text?"  
  
John digs in his pocket for his phone. "Here." He hands it to Sherlock.  
  
" _'He's with me. Love to S. Next time let's do it properly,'_ " Sherlock reads. He raises his eyebrows at the screen. "Properly?"  
  
"Yeah, I showed her the text you sent me, telling me to take the kids home." There's defiance in John's tone, but also embarrassment. "Told her that was our code word. That's all that means, so I'd know it was really from her. You know I wouldn't- I'm not even interested-" He stumbles over the words.  
  
"John, stop. That's not what she meant." Sherlock drops the phone into his pocket absently, frowning into the middle distance as if his thoughts are already elsewhere.  
  
"She didn't... It's not a code word?"  
  
"Oh, yes, certainly. But it's also a message for me. Clever." His eyes are glittering now with the excitement of a new lead.  
  
"Well, what does it mean? Do you think she took him to Moriarty?"  
  
Sherlock looks at John again, and this time there's a gleam of triumph there. "No. I believe she's using Moriarty as much as he's using her. At least I hope so."  
  
"Why's that?"  
  
"Because it means we still have a chance."  
  
They hold each other's eye for the space of several heartbeats, both hopeful and wary.  
  
"We..." John says slowly then, as if checking whether he heard correctly.  
  
Before Sherlock can respond, Harry appears at the top of the stairs in loose shorts and a sweatshirt. She's blinking and squinting against the light. "What's going on? Sherlock? What the hell, you're going to wake Emily," she hisses.  
  
"Good," Sherlock says briskly. "Get her up, pack a bag for her."  
  
"She's only just got back. She's not some ping-pong ball, you know," Harry says fiercely. "You can't keep dragging her from here to Timbuktu."  
  
"That's a mixed metaphor, and a terrible one at that," Sherlock tells her. He doesn't look impressed by the content of her argument either.  
  
"That's not the-" Harry snarls, but John interrupts her.  
  
"Harry. Just do it." The order comes out perhaps more forcefully than he intended, as he adds in a softer tone, "Please. Pack her a bag."  
  
Harry continues to glare at Sherlock. He meets her eye. "It's important," he says, his voice low and sober with no trace of taunt or scorn. "I'm aware of what it means for her. I wouldn't ask it otherwise."  
  
Harry presses her lips together. She's clearly not happy about the situation, but she nods and goes back toward the bedrooms.  
  
"Another safe house? What about Moriarty threatening the guards?" John asks.  
  
"You're going to stay with Mycroft," Sherlock tells him. "Much as it pains me to fall back on his help in this, his team are the most incorruptible we're going to find."  
  
"No, you're not separating us, and I'm coming with you," John says. His tone leaves no room for discussion.  
  
"I've disrupted your lives enough already," Sherlock says, as if he's the one who's being inconvenienced. "I just need you to stay out of the way for a couple of days and then you'll be free to-"  
  
"Will you just... " John looks pained. "Stop. Stop with that nonsense. I'm coming with you because I want to help you... get Tristram back, or whatever else you need, and because I..." He takes a step toward Sherlock but holds back before reaching him and puts his hands in his pockets. "You've been gone for three days, Sherlock," he says helplessly. "I didn't know if you were dead or..." His voice cracks and he stops and clears his throat. "Hell," he rasps, looking away. "Sorry."  
  
"It's all right," Sherlock says softly. His eyes are wide and he's watching John as if he were a never-before-seen phenomenon. "The only reason... I believed you were safe," he says. "You and Emily and Tristram. I only left because I believed the three of you were safe. That it was the only way to keep you safe. You can't imagine my... When Moriarty taunted me with the picture of Irene and Tristram together..."  
  
"You can't..." John shakes his head, still looking down. He takes several slow, deep breaths before looking up at Sherlock again. "Please," he says, more directive than entreaty. "Don't ... make my decisions for me. I understand, but... Sherlock..."  
  
"Daddy? Aunt Harry said Sherlock was... Sherlock!" Emily runs down the stairs. Her hair is tangled from lying in bed, but she's dressed.  
  
Sherlock and John step apart, having somehow drifted close enough that there's barely a hand's breadth of space between them. Emily weasels in between them and hugs Sherlock. Sherlock places a hand tentatively on her shoulder.  
  
"I knew you'd come back. Tris said you always do." Emily throws her head back to look up at Sherlock, grinning. "Where is he? Did you leave him at home?"  
  
"Tris is still with Irene, Em," John tells her gently.  
  
Emily's smile falters. She looks back and forth between her father and Sherlock. "But he's coming back now, right?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says firmly. "Tristram is coming back."

&&&&&&

  
"Oh, it's you, John." Mrs Hudson is standing in her doorway when John comes in with a plastic shopping bag over his wrist. She steps out into the hall, concern written all over her face. "Any word?"  
  
"I'm afraid not," John says as he closes and locks the outer door.  
  
Mrs Hudson looks crestfallen. "Oh, dear. It's just awful, isn't it. What kind of mother keeps her child away from his father?" It's clear she doesn't think it's a very good one.  
  
"Sherlock's working on it," John promises.  
  
"And how is _he_?" She points up the stairs, adding in a whisper, "I didn't dare go in after the way he snapped yesterday."  
  
"Yeah, sorry about that. And, he's doing about as you'd expect," John says with a sigh. "Any loud explosions while I was out?"  
  
"Just a few small ones," Mrs Hudson says with a faint smile. "Your Emily was down for a while. Such a lovely girl."  
  
John smiles too, although it looks equally strained. "Thank you. Well, I'd better get back."  
  
"You'll let me know as soon as you hear something."  
  
"Of course."  
  
Upstairs, John goes into the kitchen and sets the shopping down on the table next to Sherlock's computer. Sherlock is hunched over it in exactly the same position he was in when John left that morning for work.  
  
"Well, I wasn't kidnapped," John informs him cheerfully. "Although I almost wish I had been. It's funny, I don't remember the hospital being so dull."  
  
"Hi, Daddy," Emily calls from the living room.  
  
John steps away from Sherlock to peek around the divider. "Hi Ems, I'll be right there." He goes back to stand behind Sherlock. "He contact you yet?" John puts both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and rubs them a bit as he peers at the screen.  
  
Sherlock grunts in appreciation and leans back a bit. "No, nothing. Which is good, as Mycroft's people haven't sent the algorithm yet. If this were a situation with North Korea, we'd all be eating kim-chee by now."  
  
"All right then, there's nothing more to be done tonight. Come on, bedtime," John says. He squeezes Sherlock's shoulders one more time and lets go.  
  
Sherlock continues to stare adamantly at the screen. "It's not even nine," he grouches.  
  
"And you haven't slept in days," John says mildly. "Quite literally, I think. Certainly not since we got in last night. Come on, I don't think you've moved a muscle all day. Surprised you haven't keeled over with a thrombosis. And when was the last time you bathed?"  
  
Sherlock lifts his head to glare at John. His eyes are pink around the edges, his cheeks are dark with stubble, and his curls lie flat against his skull. "He might send a message while I'm in the shower."  
  
"I'll keep an eye on your phone. Come on, up." John claps Sherlock lightly on the back.  
  
"He didn't finish his tea," Emily informs John as she comes into the kitchen from the living room, wearing the leggings and old shirt of her mother's that she sleeps in.  
  
"Someone dropped an eyeball in it," Sherlock points out.  
  
"I fished it back out!"  
  
"It sounds like the two of you had a productive afternoon anyway," John says with the glimmer of a smile. "And the good news is, I still have a job. The bad news is, it's time for bed. Both of you. Come on." John puts his hand under Sherlock's elbow, nudging him up off his chair. Sherlock stands.  
  
"You'll also need to watch for Mycroft's file to start uploading," he says, gesturing vaguely at the laptop, which is showing at least ten open windows.  
  
"I'll take care of it. You go into the bathroom and do whatever you need to do." John pivots him around and gives him a little push. "Wash, brush, flush," he says, pointing down the hall.  
  
"You too, Em," he says to Emily once Sherlock's disappeared into the bathroom. "Let's get you tucked in." He puts his arm around her shoulders and steers her out to the living room, where a pillow and duvet are spread on the couch. The lightweight curtains that used to adorn the windows have been replaced by heavy, dark drapes that are currently pulled tightly shut.  
  
"He wouldn't eat any dinner either," Emily frets. "I brought up a plate from Mrs Hudson but he said to put it in the fridge."  
  
John lifts the duvet for Emily to get under it, then sits down on the edge of the couch beside her. "You are doing a bang-up job of watching out for Sherlock. But the choices he makes aren't your fault or your responsibility. All right?" He rubs her leg through the cover.  
  
"But she made pot pies!" Emily says earnestly.  
  
John appears to reconsider the matter. "Beef or chicken?"  
  
"Beef."  
  
"That does sound serious. In the fridge, you said?"  
  
Emily makes an affirmative sound.  
  
John shrugs. "That's my dinner sorted then."  
  
"Daddy!" Emily protests, but she's fighting a smile too.  
  
John kisses her on the top of the head and stands up.  
  
"Tris is going to be okay, isn't he?" Emily says, almost as if she's afraid to ask.  
  
"Yeah," John assures her. "He's fine and he'll be back before you know it."  
  
"Irene shouldn't have taken him like that," she insists.  
  
"No, she shouldn't," John agrees. "But she did, and Sherlock and Mycroft are working really hard to get him back."  
  
"And you too. You're going to help get him back."  
  
John gives her a soft smile. "I'll do whatever I can, yeah. Which right now is monitoring Sherlock's messages. I'll be right in there." John points to the kitchen and starts to walk that way, but Emily speaks up again.  
  
"Daddy?"  
  
"Yeah?" He stops and turns around.  
  
"When Tris comes back... are we going to live here too?"  
  
John appears to hesitate over his answer, then comes back and sits on the coffee table next to the couch. He takes a deep breath and folds his hands across his knees. He opens his mouth to say something but stops, and finally comes out with, "I don't know." He gives Emily an apologetic look. "It's not... Sherlock and I haven't talked about it. Everything's just sort of happened so fast, you know? Right now, Sherlock needs us to be here. When Tris is back, though... it's not really practical, is it? We can't have the two of you in that little room upstairs on a permanent basis, and there's no other space. And anyway, I don't know if that's even something Sherlock and Tris would want. What about you? How do you feel about it?"  
  
"I don't mind sharing a room with Tris," Emily says gamely. "He's neater than Aunt Harry."  
  
John chuckles. "Not really a high bar there."  
  
"And I think..." Emily bites her lip and looks at him from under her lashes. "You'd miss Sherlock if we weren't here."  
  
"Yeah, I would," John answers honestly. "Tris too. But that's not something to base living arrangements on. There are lots of other factors. It's one thing to have fun with sleepovers and playing games, but actually living together is different. Think about when we moved in with Harry and Clara. It's a lot different having to share a bathroom with someone than just getting together on Christmas and birthdays."  
  
"Sherlock's an even worse bathroom hog than Aunt Harry," Emily declares wholeheartedly.  
  
The squeal of the water pipes as the shower is turned on punctuates her statement.  
  
John grins. "Yeah, I'm afraid he is. More hair products too. Did you see the shelf behind the toilet? The man could open a bloody salon."  
  
Emily giggles.

&&&&&&

  
Sherlock comes into the kitchen with a towel around his hips. He's shaved and his hair is wet and his skin is pink from the shower. John looks up from where he's sitting at the table with the computer. Sherlock's mobile is lying next to it.  
  
"Anything?" Sherlock asks. He comes over and picks up the phone. He's standing so close John can feel the warmth from the hot water still radiating from his body.  
  
"Couple messages, but nothing that looked like Moriarty. You have some of your contacts working on it too?"  
  
"Of course. You don't imagine I wouldn't use every tool at my disposal. It would be a great advantage if we could at least figure out where Irene's keeping him."  
  
"No, right." There's something stiff about the way John says it, but Sherlock is still looking through his messages and doesn't react.  
  
A drop of water slowly makes its way from Sherlock's chest onto his abdomen, where it catches on a hair, glistening. John inhales sharply and pushes himself away from the table. "Why don't you go put something on," he says briskly. "Cold in here." He gets up and goes to the cupboards. "Cup of tea?"  
  
"Is Emily asleep?" Sherlock asks.  
  
John frowns at the non-sequitur. "Wh- Think so, yeah."  
  
"Bring the laptop." Sherlock takes his phone and disappears back down the hall toward the bedroom.  
  
John blinks a couple of times, his arms still raised to get cups down. Then he lowers them and goes the few steps into the living room to check on Emily. She appears to be sound asleep on the couch. John looks at the laptop on the table, then down the hall. He sighs a little and picks up the computer.  
  
"Where do you want it?" John asks as he enters Sherlock's room.  
  
Sherlock is just pulling up a pair of pyjama trousers, giving John a quick flash of his bare arse. The towel is a crumpled, damp pile on the floor.  
  
"Leave it over there," Sherlock says, gesturing at the table under the window. It's piled high with magazines, a microscope, and what look like dried moss and fungus samples. John hesitates a bit before putting the computer on the chair.  
  
Sherlock has put on a t-shirt in the meantime, and goes to sit cross-legged on the bed, tapping away at his phone.  
  
"Anything else I can do?" John asks.  
  
"Mm, no. I'll hear the alert if anything comes in."  
  
John nods. He clenches and unclenches his hands and purses his lips before saying simply, "Right. Yeah, okay. Um... good night then." He executes an almost military turn and starts for the door.  
  
Sherlock looks up abruptly. "Where are you going?" He seems a bit startled.  
  
"Yeah, I er... thought I'd sit out in the living room, maybe read a little. Should probably get the field bed down from Tristram's room too..." John jerks his head toward the hall.  
  
Sherlock frowns and looks back down at his phone. His fingers move more slowly than before. "You don't have to go."  
  
"You'd ... like me to stay?" John asks carefully, shifting his weight back away from the door again.  
  
"I don't really care if-" Sherlock begins. His voice is infused with typical impatience, but John cuts him off.  
  
"No, Sherlock. No," he repeats, his tone sharp and unyielding. "Not like that. We've been through too much for you to start with that shite. Tell me honestly. I want to stay here," he says steadily. "With you. To sleep in the same bed as you. To be here for you, however you want me and need me to. I could stay up and watch your inboxes while you kip-" John waves his hand in the direction of the bed. "But that's what I want. If you'd rather be alone, that's fine. I understand and I don't have a problem with it. I can spend the night in the living room with Emily. She certainly won't complain about it," he adds, as if that's a vast understatement. "But you need to tell me what you want. What I can do for you."  
  
Sherlock continues to stare at his phone, not saying anything for several moments. When he finally does speak, it's to the screen.  
  
"Yes," he says. His voice comes out too low and he has to clear his throat before continuing. "What you said. What you want. That's what I want too."  
  
John takes that in silently for a few seconds. Then he nods. "Okay. All right. I'll just go get my things."  
  
When he returns, Sherlock's sitting on the edge of the far side of the bed with his back to the door. His phone is now on the nightstand.  
  
John silently undresses down to his pants and undershirt. He turns on the bedside lamp and turns off the overhead one, then gets into bed, lying on his side facing Sherlock's back with his head propped up on one hand. Sherlock has remained perfectly still the whole time. His back is hunched, collapsed in on himself a bit, and his hands are gripping the side of the mattress as if he might topple over otherwise.  
  
John takes a breath as if to speak, but then doesn't. The only sounds are Sherlock's intermittent, unsteady breaths, and traffic passing by out in the street. John clenches his hand in the sheet but other than that remains still as well.  
  
"Can you turn the light off?" Sherlock finally says. His voice is low and thick, as if he's congested.  
  
John twists around and turns the bedside lamp off. It is several more seconds before Sherlock finally moves, swinging his legs up onto the bed. He lies down on his back beside John, his body stiff. John stays where he is on his side, not moving. After a couple of minutes, his eyes adjust enough to the dim light coming in from the street that he can see the pale shape of Sherlock's face. It is clear from the faint glistening of the moisture in his eyes that they are open.  
  
"I'm still here," John says softly.  
  
Sherlock takes a sudden breath, as if the sound of John's voice has pulled him back from somewhere far away. He swallows twice, loud enough to be heard. Then he says, his voice tight with the effort of remaining steady, "I miss my son."  
  
John slides his hand across the mattress until it bumps against Sherlock's arm. He feels down it to his hand and wraps his own hand around Sherlock's. Sherlock spreads his fingers so that John's can slot in between them. John squeezes his hand tightly, and Sherlock squeezes back just as tightly. Their knuckles press uncomfortably against each other but they don't let go.  
  
Sherlock's breaths sound jerky and unsteady for a short while, until he finally takes a deep one and lets it out slowly. Another minute or so passes in silence, and then he whispers, "John?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm right here," John answers softly. Their hands are still clasped.  
  
Sherlock turns his head on the pillow to face John. "John," he says again.  
  
"Yeah, Sherlock." John's voice is thick now too.  
  
And then Sherlock rolls toward John, and John lets go of Sherlock's hand to sling his arm around his back, and their mouths find each other. There is a salty taste that neither of them mentions.  
  
"He's fine, she's taking good care of him," John says between kisses. He pulls Sherlock against his chest and caresses his damp head, speaking against his cheek, tangy with the astringent taste of aftershave. "He's fine, and we're going to get him back."  
  
"How can you- How can you be here, after what I did?" Sherlock's incredulity is clearly audible. "How can you still care?"  
  
"God, you're such an idiot." John fists his hand in Sherlock's hair, pressing his head into the curve of Sherlock's neck. "Such a bloody idiot." He kisses the skin there, tasting the clean dampness and faint bitterness of soap still left from the shower.  
  
Sherlock's arms wrap around John's back, clutching handfuls of his undershirt. They lie there holding each other, touching each other's skin and breathing each other's air until both of them are feeling more in control of their voices.  
  
"We're going to get him back," John repeats.  
  
Sherlock nods against the side of John's head. "Yes," he agrees.  
  
"Because you have a plan, don't you?"  
  
Sherlock doesn't answer for a good long while. Then he admits, "Yes."  
  
John takes a deep breath and lets it out again. "I'd really, really like it you'd tell me what it is. I want to do something, Sherlock. Tris is-" John falls silent. "I miss him, too," he says, more quietly. His thumb rubs gentle circles on Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
Sherlock slowly relaxes his hold on John. John lets him go. "Sherlock?" he asks uncertainly when Sherlock sits up and crawls over John to get out of bed.  
  
"Wait." Sherlock goes out of the room, but comes back less than a minute later. He turns on the bedside lamp and climbs back over John, settling next to him on his side.  
  
"This came today." He hands John a scrap of paper. "One of my contacts passed it to Mrs Hudson when she was out at the shops, and she gave it to Emily. I don't know why she couldn't bring it to me herself," he gripes.  
  
John smiles in amusement. "Yeah, you kind of scared her yesterday," he remarks before looking at the note.  
  
" _'Let's show him how it's done properly. I'll blow him while you take him from behind. Sound fun?'_ "  
  
John nods, taking it in stride. "Yeah, um... Irene, I take it?"  
  
"Obviously."  
  
"Okay, I'm not..." John runs his tongue over his lower lip and laughs a bit. "I'm guessing this isn't what it sounds like, because it really, really sounds like... No, I'm not even going to venture who she's talking about here."  
  
Sherlock looks at John curiously. "You think she means you. You're interested."  
  
"No," John says immediately. "I'm... No," he repeats, as if the entire notion were ridiculous. "Does she mean me?" he asks anyway.  
  
"She means Moriarty. Not like that," Sherlock says in response to John's expression. "I believe she means she'll distract him so I can gain access to his data."  
  
John giggles helplessly. "I don't think I've ever heard it called that before."  
  
After a beat, Sherlock starts to laugh too.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

  
"You're going to see my father, aren't you?" Tristram watches as Irene works her fingers into a pair of tight, black gloves that go halfway up her arms. She already has a long, black overcoat on. It looks remarkably similar to Father's, but not as bulky.  
  
"No, in fact I'm not," she says, yanking viciously at the gloves. "I'm going to put an end to this entire thing, once and for all. Kate?" she calls.  
  
Quick footsteps sound coming down the stairs. It's Irene's friend, the woman who's going to stay with Tristram while Irene goes out. She has longish red hair, pale green eyes, and the same air of vague amusement as Uncle Mycroft's assistant, Miss Smith. Only where Miss Smith makes Tristram think of a Siamese cat, just barely deigning to interact with humans, Kate reminds Tristram more of a panther. There's something prowling and greedy behind those eyes. Tristram is fascinated, but also wary. He's not afraid of her, though, and certainly she's done nothing that could in any way be construed as threatening. She arrived about an hour ago with what Tristram assumed was an overnight bag, but Irene took it from her and disappeared into her bedroom with it alone. Maybe it had extra clothes for Irene. Irene didn't take any luggage with her from the train either. Although she's had new clothes on every day since they've been here; she must have found things left in the bedroom she's using that happened to fit her too. So Tristram's not actually sure what was in that bag that Kate brought.  
  
"I wish you'd let me go," Kate says. There's a bit of a pout there, but also a bit of disapproval. She holds out a small red handbag once she gets to the bottom of the stairs. It matches the red dress Irene's wearing under her coat. That was probably one of the things in the suitcase Kate brought her.  
  
Irene takes the handbag and undoes the clasp, checks the contents, and snaps it shut again. "It's not that I don't have complete confidence in your abilities, but you know, this is personal."  
  
Kate shakes her head. She looks frustrated. "It's not that. He's not right."  
  
"No," Irene agrees smoothly. "Which is why I can't let you go after him."  
  
She and Kate look at each other. Tristram has the impression they're having an argument without using any words, the same way John and Father do sometimes. They both have pretty good glares going, but Tristram's not surprised when Kate's the one who ends up backing down.  
  
"Be careful, Irene," she says, the same way Mrs Hudson does when Father dashes off chasing a lead. Fretful, but like she's said it about a hundred times before and despairs of him ever minding her.  
  
Irene looks like she's a little disappointed. "Oh, Kate, you know me. I'm never careful." She smirks. "I'm thorough."  
  
Then she looks down at Tristram and puts her hand against his cheek. The material of her gloves feels cool and slippery on his skin. "Now Tristram," she starts. Her features soften, and Tristram's afraid for a pretty long moment that she's actually going to start crying, the way her eyes go all shiny. But when she speaks, her voice is steady and clear. "You are my miracle," she says. "I don't know what I expected when I went to Switzerland, but you weren't it, and I'm glad. Because I could never have come up with anything as incredible as you. I am very, very proud to be your mother, even though I know I don't deserve it. And now I'm going to go and try to earn it, just a little bit." She rubs her thumb over his cheek. A shiver goes down Tristram's spine. "Wish me luck," she whispers.  
  
Tristram's mouth has gone dry, but he manages to dutifully parrot back: "Good luck." That was kind of a big speech. No one's ever told him he was incredible before, not even John, who's fairly generous with his praise. He's told Father's he's incredible - and amazing, and lots of other nice things - lots of times. And he did say that Tristram guessing right about the phone was amazing. But given Irene's track record with the truth, he's not sure what to make of it when she says it. Does she really think that? Based on what? All she's seen him do the past few days is eat and have panic attacks.  
  
He also doesn't know what to do with her statement that she's proud to be his mother. And why would she have to deserve it? As he understands the way the world works, a person doesn't have to do anything in particular to earn parenthood. It just kind of happens. He's apprehensive, though, about what she might be going to do to earn it, and what 'putting an end to this thing' will entail. It sounds very final.  
  
Irene leans over Tristram's head toward Kate. Tristram can hear the soft smack, but he doesn't see where the kiss lands. He wonders if maybe Kate and Irene are special friends too. But Irene pulls back right away and leans down toward Tristram. She hesitates a moment before kissing Tristram on the cheek. Her face is really soft, even softer than Mrs Hudson's, and she smells nice. He gives her a little smile. She smiles back. She looks like she's going to say something, but all that comes out is "Don't wait up." Before Tristram can nod she’s turned her back on them and is out the door.  
  
Kate and Tristram look each other over, both equally wary. "You want me to show you how to tie some knots?" she finally suggests.  
  
Tristram shrugs. "Sure." Although it's more getting out of them that he needs practise with.

&&&&&&

  
"Well, this is a turn-up, wouldn't you say?" the man behind the desk chirps, grinning gleefully at Sherlock and John as they enter. His face is pale and boyish even with the faint shadow above his lip. His dark hair is slicked back from his high forehead, and he's wearing a very neat, dark-grey suit.  
  
Irene is perched on top of the desk, facing forward as if waiting for company. She has her gloved hands folded demurely in her lap and her legs dangle playfully over the edge. She inclines her head slightly in Sherlock and John's direction and gives them a cool smile.  
  
John grinds to an abrupt halt and turns to check Sherlock's reaction, but he is fixated on Irene.  
  
The man gets up and ambles lazily around the desk. "John Watson, it's _such_ a pleasure," he burbles with an oily grin, holding out his hand. "Jim Moriarty."  
  
John stares at his hand but doesn't take it. His expression is stony.  
  
Moriarty shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets instead. "Sherlock's told me _all_ about you," he says. He leans forward and lowers his voice. "I was especially interested in what he had to say about your skill with a..." He looks around as if someone might overhear him, then leans in even closer to speak directly into John's ear. "A gun," he finishes. He makes the word sound indecent, virtually caressing it on his tongue.  
  
John remains compeletely still except for a muscle twitching under one eye.  
  
Moriarty pulls back and continues, more casually this time. "A real one, that is. Just one look at poor, infatuated Sherlock was enough to tell me all about the way you handle that piece of equipment you hide in your pocket. Of course as a doctor, even in the army you never would have needed to use a live weapon, but we all get an itchy trigger finger now and then, don't we?"  
  
He turns and walks back around his desk. "I used to have a former army colonel working for me," he mentions as he goes. "Knew what to do with a gun as well. Sadly, he was killed by some nasty sniper. Very unpleasant business. Pity really, I’m sure you would have made great pals. Swapping war stories, you know." Suddenly his voice is very high. " 'I’m a hero.' 'No, I’m a hero.' Oh, well." He pretends to wipe tears from his eyes, then he sits down and sighs heavily. "Some things obviously weren’t meant to be. But you know the saying," he goes on, perking up. "One door slams shut on your fingers, leaving a mangled, bloody mess, and another one opens. So imagine how excited I was when Sherlock suggested bringing you in on our little project. Having lost dear, dear Seb, I was rather desperate to find someone with a similar skill set. And now Sherly here told me you’re just the thing. Sit." He points at two armchairs set at angles in front of the desk. It's an order, not an invitation, but it's not entirely unfriendly. "I believe you all know each other?" Moriarty suggests innocently, gesturing at Irene once John and Sherlock have taken their seats. Their chairs are far enough away that they can't reach each other, but close enough that Moriarty has both of them firmly in his field of vision.  
  
"Where's Tristram?" Sherlock demands of Irene, ignoring Moriarty.  
  
"Safe. For now," Irene says, placing a casual emphasis on the last word. "Oh, don't look like that. Really, you don't imagine I would have left him anywhere he might get ... I don't know, poisoned or shot?"  
  
Moriarty giggles. "He did, didn't he? Oh, Sherlock," he says, his face falling comically at Sherlock's suddenly thunderous expression. "Admit it. You were a rather negligent parent."  
  
"That was all down to you, not Sherlock," John punches out, stabbing a finger in Moriarty's direction.  
  
Moriarty's eyebrows shoot up in an expression of exaggerated surprise. "Ooh, look, it speaks! How fun!"  
  
Irene chuckles, low and throaty. "Oh, he is fun. I didn't even tell you how prettily he blushes yet. Watch. John..." she coaxes, "have you had Sherlock properly yet? Ridden him hard and put him away wet?" She drops her voice even further and leans forward as if to speak to him confidentially. "Top tip: see if you can make him beg for it. He's ever so grateful afterwards."  
  
"Aw, now you're making me blush," Moriarty croons.  
  
John smirks, his hands grasping the armrests of his chair the only outward sign of his agitation. "Why? Does sex alarm you?"  
  
"Oh really, sex," Sherlock drawls dismissively. "How tedious. And here I thought we were going to discuss business, not engage in some fourteen-year-old locker room talk."  
  
"God," Moriarty groans, "it's just a bit of hazing. Can't you take a joke?" He rolls his eyes and stands. "But you're right - you see, Irene, this is why I need him," he says reasonably as he comes to the front of the desk. He leans back against it beside her. "He's going to keep me on track. All work and no play..." He puts on a gormless expression. "Makes Jim dull!" he drones, pretending to be thick. "But necessary," he continues in his normal voice. "I have so many _ideas_..." He wiggles his fingers around his head. "But we need to focus. Cut to the quick. Let's have it then." He holds his hand out, palm up. "Come on, homework's due," he says impatiently when Sherlock doesn't react right away.  
  
Sherlock gives John a signal, and he reaches into one of his jacket pockets to take out a memory stick, which he drops into Moriarty's hand. Before John can pull back, however, Moriarty snatches at his hand. John tries to jerk away, but Moriarty holds on tight, catching his eye. John glares back, obviously making a concerted effort not to employ any greater physical force.  
  
"My condolences on your wife," Moriarty says softly. "How long has it been now, almost two years? And I heard something about her sister too, just a couple of months ago. Shame. The women in your family do seem to have rather short lifespans. Have you considered having your daughter checked out? It might be something genetic."  
  
"You ..." John looks like he's struggling for words. "Bastard," he finally spits out and yanks his hand out of Moriarty's grip. "Leave my daughter out of this. I'm doing what you want, both of us, we're playing your game. Our kids have nothing to do with it."  
  
Moriarty shakes his head with regret. "That's the sad truth about having children, John ... I can call you John, can't I? We're all friends here, after all. John, the thing about kids is... they get into scrapes. Accidents." He shrugs. "You look away for a second, and BOOM!" He slaps his hands together to punctuate his outburst. "Boom," he repeats sadly, then immediately brightens. "Well, let's see what good ol' Sherlock's done with his assignment, shall we?" He goes back around the desk and sits down, inserts the memory stick into the laptop computer and clicks on the tracking pad a couple of times.  
  
"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty chuckles after a short while. "Oh, I like this. Liverpool? Really? Fifteen million?" His smile is giddy. He clicks a few more times. "This is very good. I knew you'd be a natural, given the proper incentive."  
  
"You mean kidnapping his son," John says flatly.  
  
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Moriarty says, all injured innocence as he continues to scroll through Sherlock's document. "Sounds more like a custody issue to me. You should try a family court."  
  
"Oh, so you wouldn't have any problem with Irene handing Tristram back then, hm?" John says. "Not worried that might reduce Sherlock's incentive to work with you?"  
  
Moriarty leans back in his chair and giggles. "Oh, she won't do that. Not after she worked so hard to get him. Besides, if she did that, I might be tempted to release a few tidbits I've gathered on her over the years. You'd be shocked." He widens his eyes in comical alarm.  
  
Irene slides gracefully off the table, turning casually toward Moriarty. What looks like a move to adjust her bosom inside her dress turns out to be something else altogether as she ends up with a small pistol gripped in both her hands. It is aimed, quite professionally, at the man behind the desk. She disengages the safety and adjusts her stance so her feet are a bit further apart.  
  
Both John and Sherlock go very still.  
  
Moriarty, on the other hand, looks delighted. He lifts his hands slowly away from the keyboard. "Oh, that's very good," he says with genuine admiration. "Truly. I'm surprised, I admit it. Look, goosebumps!" he exclaims gleefully, holding up his arm. "You see, Sherlock, never a dull moment. Who frisked you coming in, by the way?" he asks Irene. "It looks like he might be in for a bit of discipline."  
  
Irene smirks. "Isn't it quaint how he thinks rules apply to me?" The question is directed over her shoulder at Sherlock and John, without taking her eyes from Moriarty. To him, she says, "The poor man would like that immensely. But you might want to avoid his backside. That might still be a bit tender from having my heels dug into it half an hour ago." All eyes in the room except hers are drawn down to the high, sharp heels on her shoes.  
  
"Oh, I know you're beyond anything as boring as rules," Moriarty says. There's a thrumming excitement in his voice as he speaks. "It's why I let you do things for me. But it's the principle of the thing, you see?"  
  
Irene chuckles. "That's very funny. Me doing things for you. We've had a mutually beneficial relationship. You know, like those little birds that keep the fleas off cattle. Tristram told me all about them at dinner last night," she offers, including Sherlock and John in the comment as well. "He's been reading all these nature books. As for the birds, it's perhaps a bit distasteful, but it's a comfortable perch, and those silly cows have no idea really what the clever little birdies are doing up on their backs. They could be bleeding them dry for all they know. And the best part is, once they've taken everything useful from the beast, they can flit off to other pastures. Well, it's time for me to flit, Jim."  
  
Moriarty stares at her, his eyes round with pretended enchantment. "What a pretty story," he says in a high, wondering voice before his demeanour suddenly becomes something close to feral. "There's just one problem. This cow has the bird's wings clipped. All I have to do is send one little file to Children's Services and you'll be lucky to end up with supervised visitation once a month. Not that you'd be able to make much use of that from prison, which is where they put naughty little girls like you."  
  
"Which is why I need you to delete those files," Irene says, this time with iron in her voice.  
  
"Um..." Moriarty rolls his eyes up, pretending to think. "No. Although I agree it might be better for you to move on to other pastures at this point. I'll keep the files, though, thanks."  
  
"Are you sure about that?" Irene asks. "What if I were to shoot you now?" Her lips are parted, shiny in the artificial light, and her eyes are wide as if in anticipation.  
  
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty retorts, sounding like he's had just about enough of her.  
  
"Irene..." Sherlock cautions, lifting his hand as if to stay her.  
  
"Don't worry, she's not really going to-" Moriarty tells him testily, and then there is a short, muffled pop, and then another. Moriarty slumps to the side and slides off his chair onto the floor.  
  
"Oh," Sherlock says into the startled silence. "We could probably have coordinated that better."  
  
Irene stares down at Moriarty's body. A spill of blood pools and spreads beneath his head. His blank eyes are fixed in an expression of mild surprise. She titters, high and nervy.  
  
John holds out his hands, palms forward. "Irene, put the gun down," he says, very calmly, very firmly.  
  
"Oh my God. I actually did it," she breathes out.  
  
"Irene!" Sherlock snaps as he strides forward. John leaps to hold him back, but he can't make contact before Sherlock reaches Irene.  
  
Sherlock snatches the gun out of Irene's hand and hands it to John. John, taken by surprise, barely manages to cup his hands around it before Sherlock lets go. Irene slowly moves her eyes from Moriarty to her empty hand.  
  
"Look at that," she says in wonderment, spreading her still-gloved fingers. She lifts her eyes to Sherlock's, a slow smile forming. "Steady as a rock. I suppose all those sessions at the shooting range were good for something other than foreplay after all." She lets out a long breath that just barely manages not to be shaky.  
  
John, meanwhile, has now slipped the pistol into his pocket and darted forward to check Moriarty.  
  
"He is dead, isn't he?" Irene asks, not looking away from Sherlock.  
  
"Yes," John confirms with a quick nod and gets to his feet. "What the _hell_ were you thinking?" he demands, keeping his voice to a loud whisper and pointing accusingly at the dead man on the floor.  
  
"That it was time to put an end to all your male posturing. He would have played that game forever if you'd let him." She smooths her dress. "And now it's your turn, darlings."  
  
"I could really have done with a bit more information out of him," Sherlock grumbles. "Not that I begrudge the outcome." He glances down at the dead man.  
  
"I have every confidence you'll handle it," Irene says. "Tristram and I will be waiting to hear from you." She hops across the floor toward the floor-to-ceiling windows covering one wall, taking off her shoes as she goes.  
  
John dashes forward to put himself between her and the windows. "Hold on, that's it?" he practically screeches. "You're leaving us here with a..." He lowers his voice. "With a dead body to deal with... and what about Tristram?"  
  
Irene straightens up. "I told you, he's safe. Safe as houses now that that's dealt with." She jerks her head back toward the body on the floor.  
  
"Then we're coming to get him now," John declares. "He's already been so traumatised, I can only imagine-"  
  
"What exactly do you think I've been doing to him?" she asks incredulously. "He's fine, John. My goodness, you'd think I was some kind of monster the way you're rattling on about it. I've made sure he eats his veg and is all tucked up in bed by eight-thirty every night. And I have one of the best hitwomen in the business watching him right now."  
  
"You have-" John turns to Sherlock in outrage. "Do you hear this? She has a hitwoman babysitting your son and she calls that safe!"  
  
"We don't have what we came for yet," Sherlock says quietly. He walks over and reaches behind John to open the window. John gapes a bit but moves aside to let Irene pass.  
  
Irene pauses and rests her hand delicately on John's arm. "Tristram is fine," she reassures him. She looks up at Sherlock. "I'll bring him back over as soon as I get proof you've taken care of those files."  
  
John stares at Sherlock, his disbelief solidifying into anger and hurt. "So this was all arranged then? The two of you- Fine." He steps out of the way entirely and raises both hands in surrender. "You know what? Fine. After last night, I thought-" He shakes his head and laughs briefly, a sour sound. "God, I really believed you this time. I fell for it again, didn't I?"  
  
"I showed you her note!" Sherlock says indignantly.  
  
"Yeah, but that can't have been everything!" John hisses.  
  
Irene looks back and forth between the two men. "There wasn't any agreement between us, John."  
  
John's face twists in an ugly way. "And I'm supposed to believe you-"  
  
"No," Irene says simply. "You're supposed to believe him."  
  
John swallows. He puts his hands on his hips and slowly lifts his eyes to Sherlock. Sherlock is standing there stiff and still, all colour drained from his face.  
  
"Is it true?" John asks, guarded.  
  
"It doesn't matter what I say, I can't make you-"  
  
"Is it true, Sherlock?" John redoubles, speaking louder to drown out whatever Sherlock is trying to say. "Everything you told me last night, is it true? Did you leave anything out? Even if you were trying to protect me, even if you thought it was for my own good?"  
  
A small line appears between Sherlock's eyebrows. "I can't- That's two different questions. Yes, everything I told you is true. Irene is correct, we never discussed anything after I left with you for the Falls, and we never planned any of this, here, beyond her oblique reference to me dealing with Moriarty's files. Which is unfortunate, as she's left us with a tidy little problem to deal with. And no, I didn't leave anything out last night. Not knowingly, anyway. John, I..." His voice drops, adding an extra layer of soberness. "I meant what I said." After a couple of seconds, he adds, "All of it ..."  
  
They stand looking at each other, hope and vulnerability struggling with fear and insecurity. Finally, John unclenches the fists his hands are curled into at his sides.  
  
"Yeah," he says, his voice low and gruff. "Yeah, okay. Me too."  
  
Both men lean imperceptibly closer to each other, but before anything else can happen, Irene pipes up.  
  
"Much as I would love to see where this is leading," she trills, "we're going to have to move things along. Someone's going to come check on us eventually, and I for one don't intend to be here with that lying around." She jerks her head back toward Moriarty's body.  
  
John tears his eyes away from Sherlock, blinking around like he's just come in from the sun. Then he looks down at himself as if he's just remembered something. "Yeah, and er... not to mention this..." He plucks open his jacket pocket and tilts his body to show the gun still inside.  
  
"Yes, we might still be needing that." Sherlock, once again composed, ushers Irene through the window, which opens onto a wide terrace overlooking a garden.  
  
"For?" John asks.  
  
"As soon as I land on the lawn, the floodlights are going to come on," Irene says. "It'll be about thirty seconds before the security detail comes after me. Help a girl up." This last comment is directed at Sherlock, who hoists Irene onto the railing surrounding the terrace, her skirt being so tight she can't lift her legs high enough on her own.  
  
Irene hooks her shoes over one finger by the straps. "I can probably buy you another five minutes," she tells him, swinging her legs over to the other side.  
  
"For what? Will someone please tell me what's going on?" John demands.  
  
Irene wrinkles her nose. "Sherlock, really. He's cute, but don't you find him rather dense?"  
  
"Oopsy-daisy," Sherlock sing-songs and tips her over the edge.  
  
She lets out a short, muffled shriek. The floodlights switch on with a clack. Sherlock is already on his way back inside. John checks over the edge. Irene is picking herself up from the lawn, her shoes still delicately dangling from one finger. She tilts her head up to catch John's eye and hitches her dress up around her hips. "Remember: make him beg," she calls softly up to him, grins, and starts running.  
  
John pushes himself back from the railing and goes back inside. "Five minutes for what? What are we still doing here?"  
  
Sherlock is already sitting at the desk, his hands hovering over the laptop as if it contains radioactive material. "We don't have his password."  
  
"So?" John steps carefully around the bloodstain, which has now reached the wall. "Can't Mycroft's people extract the information from the hard drive without it?"  
  
"He doesn't have anything on here," Sherlock says. "Do you really think he'd be stupid enough to store all his blackmail material on a physical drive? One spilled cup of coffee and his entire empire collapses. No, it's in the cloud."  
  
John leans one hand on the back of the desk chair and looks over Sherlock's shoulder at the laptop. "Sorry?"  
  
"Virtual space," Sherlock explains quickly, his eyes flitting back and forth across the screen. "Fragmented and encrypted, hidden away behind several firewalls. That's not the problem, however. Mycroft will have people who can access it eventually, but we don't have that much time. He built in a failsafe: if he doesn't enter a password at least once every twenty-four hours, the floodgates are opened. Everything he has on anyone, all the incriminating evidence, will be released and distributed across the internet. Think Wikileaks to the power of ten. Governments will fall, John. And it might become rather difficult to get a decent WiFi connection. Terribly inconvenient."  
  
"He told you this?"  
  
Sherlock snorts. "Of course he told me that. He was a narcissistic megalomaniac. He couldn't get enough of telling me how clever he was."  
  
"Not like that's familiar or anything," John mutters. Then in a more normal tone, he asks, "Well, can you stop it? Do you know the password?"  
  
"No. But it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out."  
  
"Easy then," John says, as if he thinks it will be anything but.  
  
"It would be if I had more time." Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers against his temples.  
  
"You have twenty-four hours, you can work on it at home."  
  
"We don't know when the last time he entered it was. If he were at all clever, he'd have timed it so that the deadline ran out right around the time of this meeting, for exactly this reason. And we do know he was clever." Sherlock's eyes pop open and he taps something quickly on the computer keyboard.  
  
A sad-sounding trombone swoop comes from the computer and a message appears on the screen: 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the smartest of them all?'  
  
Sherlock makes a face as if someone were trying to force him to eat Brussels sprouts. "Smart? He wasn't smart, he was clever. Why smart?"  
  
John looks suddenly toward the terrace. They left the window open, and the sound of shouts can be heard from outside. "No pressure or anything, but I think that's the least of our worries."  
  
"Shh!" Sherlock shushes him sharply. "I need to think!"  
  
John goes to the window and glances out. More shouts sound, accompanied by doors slamming somewhere inside the house. John hurries back to Sherlock. "Take that with you, you can keep trying while we _get out of here_!" he says.  
  
"No, wait, I've almost got it," Sherlock mutters. He types something, stops, deletes most of it, then types again and hits 'Enter'.  
  
The klaxon plays again and the same message blinks on the screen.  
  
"All right, that's it, come on." John grabs Sherlock by the arm and tries to bodily haul him to his feet.  
  
"Will you stop, I cannot THINK!" Sherlock shouts, shaking him off.  
  
"In case you haven't noticed, we won't be able to apparate out of here. Is that what you wanted Irene's gun for? You expecting me to blast our way out?"  
  
Sherlock looks up with an expression of wonder and surprise. "Oh! Yes, exactly. John, you're a genius. Apparate! Tom Marvolo Riddle! That's why he's smart, not clever. Quick, what was his middle name?" Sherlock snaps his fingers several times at John.  
  
"What the hell? Who?"  
  
Sherlock huffs a bit and repeats the question: "His middle name. Moriarty," he adds as if John were dense, gesturing at the body on the floor. "Get his wallet." Sherlock twirls his hand at the corpse. "It should have some form of ID with his middle name on it."  
  
John crouches down and gingerly reaches inside Moriarty's jacket, coming out with a thin leather etui. He flips it open and starts combing through it. "J. L. Moriarty, J., James, James L... Here, his EHIC card. James Llewellen Moriarty." He hands the card to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock grabs a pen from the desk and starts scribbling on a scrap of paper. "Smarter... I am smarter, obvious, the J's a problem... joy, jelly, jolly..." He crosses out and rewrites. John comes over to watch, resting one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Finally, Sherlock underscores a line of writing and turns back to the computer.  
  
"I am jolly well e'en smarter? E'en?" John reads incredulously.  
  
"It's a poetic form of even," Sherlock says. "Still, it probably killed him that his name wasn't Morviarty." He enters the phrase into the password prompt. His finger hesitates over the Enter key, though.  
  
"Well go on," John says impatiently. "What are you waiting for?"  
  
"If it's wrong, this would be the third failed attempt. It might trigger the dump."  
  
"It's going to go off anyway, right?"  
  
"Maybe. We might still have time to try something else." Sherlock tilts his head to look up at John. "He has something on you in there," he says soberly. "He showed me. Timestamped footage of you entering and leaving the building with the duffle the night Moran was shot. A witness who can place you at the shooting range the night before."  
  
John holds Sherlock's gaze for several moments. They can hear raised voices now, accompanied by clattering and thumping. John nods once. "It's right. You got the right password," he says and looks at the screen.  
  
Sherlock taps Enter.  
  
The screen goes black. John's hand tightens on Sherlock's shoulder, but half a second later, the display comes back, this time showing a directory. Sherlock starts scrolling rapidly through it. John lets out his breath and squeezes Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock reaches up his left hand and covers John's hand with his.  
  
A few keystrokes later, the entire directory disappears.  
  
"Now shoot it," Sherlock says, standing and moving away from the desk.  
  
"What? But you said there wasn't anything-"  
  
"There's not, but there's no time to shut it down, and it will distract them, just shoot it!" Sherlock is already on his way to the terrace windows.  
  
John takes out Irene's gun, cocks it, and blasts a hole in the laptop. After a moment's consideration, he pumps another round into it then sprints after Sherlock.  
  
"That felt pretty good, actually," John remarks as he reaches the terrace. "Bloody things never do what I want."  
  
Sherlock vaults over the railing. John clambers after him. When he drops to the ground, Sherlock is already halfway across the lawn. "Get the lights, John!" he yells over his shoulder.  
  
John gets to his feet and twists around to aim for the big floodlights on the side of the house. Just as he does, a figure bursts out onto the terrace above him, a gun in his hand. He spots John, but before he can get a shot off, John blasts one of the lights and drops to the ground, rolling toward the wall for some modicum of cover. In a crouch, he takes out the only other light within range while shouts come from above and somewhere to the left. Under cover of the darkness, John takes a deep breath and runs after Sherlock.

&&&&&&

  
"That..." John pants, still out of breath, "was completely insane. We must have left all kinds of evidence. Fingerprints... Hell, they saw us going in. They'll know we did it. And we didn't even do it!"  
  
He watches Sherlock's profile in the back seat of the black car bringing them back to London.  
  
"They're not going to go after us," Sherlock says smugly.  
  
"No? What, you have some kind of mind tricks? You're not actually a wizard, you know."  
  
Sherlock reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and takes out the memory stick they'd given to Moriarty. He waggles it at John.  
  
"You..." It takes a few seconds, but then John's face expands into a slow smile. "Of course you did. And they're all on there. Moriarty would have made sure of it to keep them under his thumb. What are you going to do with it?"  
  
"First scrub any mention of you or Irene and then hold it over Mycroft's head for favours."  
  
John laughs, tentatively at first, but soon he's clutching his side and guffawing. "Oh God, oh Jesus. That is brilliant. Why Irene though? She still has Tristram."  
  
Sherlock's smile falters. His fingers worry absently at the stick. "She doesn't want to keep him. She's had her bit of fun. You heard her. She sucked the cow dry. It's time for her to flit." He stuffs the memory stick back into his pocket and props his elbow on the window frame, his fist to his mouth.  
  
John slides closer to him on the seat so he can rest his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "She's an idiot. She doesn't deserve him."  
  
"Nevertheless, she is his mother, and she won't go away entirely this time."  
  
"Couldn't you have her stripped of any parental rights? Moriarty said he had something on there that would do it-"  
  
"And Tristram?" Sherlock asks quietly, lowering his hand to his lap.  
  
John looks down, considering the implications. He swallows hard, his thumb rubbing the juncture between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. "Yeah, of course. You're right. It wouldn't... It wouldn't be fair to him."  
  
"I'm afraid we're just going to have to deal with her."  
  
"We..." John repeats, as if probing for an explanation.  
  
"I meant... me," Sherlock says quickly. "Me and Tristram... You don't have to-"  
  
"No, Sherlock." John smiles quietly. "It's fine. We."  
  
John nudges with his hand on Sherlock's neck until Sherlock turns his head. John moves closer and kisses him gently. Sherlock shifts and puts his arm around John's back, returning the assurance along with several more kisses.  
  
"Just one more question," John says when they finally separate again. "What was all that about his middle name?"  
  
Sherlock exhales and settles back against the seat. "He had a full set of those wizard books on the bookshelves behind his desk; hardcover, no less. I don't doubt he identified closely with the main antagonist, Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. 'I am Lord Voldemort'."  
  
John looks bemused. "That's not in the one we're reading now. That's in one of the earlier ones."  
  
" _Chamber of Secrets_ , yes. I may have found it expedient to do some research in order to keep abreast of Tristram's interests."  
  
"You are amazing. And a very, very good father."  
  
Sherlock looks pained. "John..."  
  
"No, you are." John takes Sherlock's hand and squeezes it firmly. "And now let's go get Tristram."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The best lines in this chapter were written by dioscureantwins because she's sassier than me.
> 
> I worked with [the Internet Anagram Server](http://wordsmith.org/anagram/) to come up with the anagram. (Put your name in and try it, it's fun!)
> 
> The EHIC card is the European Health Insurance Card. It allows anyone covered by the NHS to receive medical care in any country belonging to the European Economic Area. Basically, someone from the UK would need it if they're travelling to Switzerland because Switzerland isn't in the EU.
> 
> I really hope this all makes sense and explains enough what's been going on. I purposely didn't include all the details of everyone's plans because it would have involved going into tangents that weren't really important for the resolution of the story. Also because Sherlock, Irene, and Moriarty are much cleverer than I am. :) If there's anything that is still really bugging you though, please ask!


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

  
Tristram is nervous. Terribly so. His heart is beating nineteen to the dozen, as Mrs Hudson would say, and his palms are actually sweaty, a phenomenon he's read about but never experienced in person. It's a shame he's not at home because there's nothing in the plane he can use to take a sample for analysis. If Father were here, he'd have a swab and an evidence bag at least, but it's just Irene in the seat beside him. She's reading a book and doesn't look nervous at all. It's not a panic attack he's having; he can tell the difference. He hasn't had one of those since Switzerland. Hopefully he's over them now. Although he thinks he'll still go see Mrs Daniels, partly out of curiosity but also because he told John he would.  
  
Irene told him she saw John, that night she went out to 'put an end to this entire thing', and that he was in fine spirits. Father was there too, even though Irene said she wasn't going to see him. Tristram almost expected to hear something like that, but the little sting of betrayal or mistrust or whatever you want to call it still pricks a bit. Not only because it means that if Tristram had stayed with John, he would have got to see Father a whole lot sooner, but also because it means Irene lied to him again. Well, not lied exactly... It was one of those tricky ways of saying something so that it sounded like one thing but meant another. Uncle Mycroft does the same thing sometimes. Tristram can't always tell. He's going to have to get better at it.  
  
Because Irene might not have gone wherever it was she went _for the purpose_ of seeing Father, but Tristram's pretty sure now that she knew or at least expected he'd be there. She wouldn't tell Tristram anything more, though, not even whether anyone else was there. Although there must have been, because if she wasn't going to see Father, who then? John? All she'd say was that it all worked out and they were safe now. He and Father and John and Emily, and she and Kate too. Tristram didn't even know Irene and Kate were in danger. Tristram asked what about Uncle Mycroft, but Irene just laughed and said the day Uncle Mycroft was in danger would be the day England fell. Which isn't exactly a straight answer, but since England is still standing - he can see it below them now, the land motionless next to the sparkling water, the contours more irregular than any map would lead you to believe - he expects that means Uncle Mycroft's not in danger either.  
  
The point is, though, that Father was there last night, and Irene said that Tristram was the very first thing he asked about. That made Tristram miss his father even more, and he already missed him a nearly unbearable amount. Father hasn't even seen that he's got all the bandages off his back. But he's fine, Irene said, and she told Father and John that Tristram was fine and now that the danger is over, she's bringing him back to them. Although she wouldn't say how it's over, whether the bad guys are in jail or ... well, dead is the only other possibility that Tristram can think of. Maybe Irene thinks Tristram is squeamish about dead bodies, because he can't imagine why she wouldn't want to tell him if they were in jail.  
  
So no, this isn't a panic attack, this is excitement and wondering and hoping all mixed up. And a little bit of uncertainty too, because maybe Irene isn't really taking him to Father. He wants to believe her. Not just because he wants - desperately, so hard that he almost can't think about it - to see Father again, but because he wants to be able to believe Irene. It's exhausting always having to stop and think about whether what she's saying is the truth or not. Maybe she meant she's going to take Tristram to Father eventually. Some day. If so, he intends to figure out how to get back to Father on his own, or at least contact him or John or Uncle Mycroft. Now that he doesn't have to worry about getting shot the second he sets foot outside the house. She can't keep him away from them forever, even if she is his mother.  
  
By the time the plane lands, Tristram has steeled himself - for the moment, anyway, until he can get his bearings - for another car ride into the unknown, another safe house, another day of not knowing what's going on.  
  
They have to go claim Irene's suitcase from the carousel. Tristram doesn't have any luggage. He left behind all the clothes they found in the cottage that just happened to fit him, even though Irene said he could feel free to take them. They aren't his (even though he suspects, really, they were supposed to be). No matter, he can't imagine ever wanting to wear any of them again. They would only make him think of worrying about Father and John and Emily and the endless rain and waiting and waiting. So when Irene said they were leaving, he put back on the clothes he'd left Switzerland in, even though they hadn't been laundered. Irene wore a pair of black trousers and a black turtleneck that must have been in Kate's suitcase too.  
  
Tristram forces himself not to look at the wall of glass separating the baggage claim area from the other side where people are waiting to meet their friends and family, even though he really, really wants to look and see if - maybe, possibly - Father is there. But Irene said she was taking him to Father, not that Father was coming to meet them. They've landed in London so maybe she really is taking him this time.  
  
But the main reason he doesn't want to look is that all that glass, all that exposure, makes him anxious. He recognises that now, and he remembers what John said: that part of avoiding a panic attack is staying away from things that set it off. He does not want to have a panic attack here in the middle of the airport. Airports, strangers, and windows: all things that his brain has bad associations with. He managed it the last time they flew, just barely, and he's going to do even better this time by not looking at any of the windows.  
  
So he keeps his head down and takes Irene's hand as they head to the exit. All he has to do is look at the floor and make sure he doesn't bump into anyone. They go through the sliding glass doors, and then Irene slows as she navigates around the groups of bystanders waiting for other arrivals. People are laughing and hugging and shaking hands and dropping their luggage in inconvenient places. Tristram steps instinctively closer to Irene, narrowly avoiding running into a woman who stops abruptly just in front of him.  
  
And then Irene stops too, and before Tristram can look to see why, there are arms around him, pulling at him, drawing him in, and a scratchy woollen coat that smells like stale cigarettes and cold air and formaldehyde is rubbing his nose and cheek. It's Father, Tristram knows it even before he hears his voice or gets a glimpse of the black curls that flip out over Father's ear just like Tristram's.  
  
"Tristram." Father's voice sounds funny, kind of high and whispery, but that doesn't matter. Father is here, and he's picking Tristram up, hugging him tight, his chin pressing against Tristram's head.  
  
"Father!" he says into Father's shoulder. It should be embarrassing to be picked up like a little kid with his feet off the floor but it isn't. It's glorious, and Tristram never, ever wants Father to put him down. He's so happy he wants to jump and shout, but he also wants to burrow in closer, so that's what he does, somehow working his left arm in under Father's arm so he can grip his coat there. Father came to get him, he's really here, and nothing else in the world matters at this moment.  
  
But then he's hit by a rush of something - maybe guilt - that makes him need to explain what happened. Because Father didn't know, he didn't know that Irene was going to sneak off with him, and she didn't even send him a message, and the way he's clinging to Tristram now, Tristram suspects he may have been upset about it. Possibly even as upset as Tristram was.  
  
"I didn't have my phone. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have gone with her," Tristram mumbles against the coat.  
  
Father inhales sharply and gives Tristram one more good, hard squeeze before he starts to loosen his grip. Tristram prepares for the separation even though he's not nearly ready to let go yet, but Father is just adjusting his grip, locking his hands under Tristram's seat so he can hold him at the right height to look him in the eye.  
  
"This was not your fault, Tristram." Father's eyes are doing that piercing, insistent thing they do that means he wants to put something directly into Tristram's brain. Tristram is so happy to have that look directed at him again that a shiver goes up the back of his neck. "None of it was," Father tells him. "You must never, ever think that."  
  
Tristram doesn't know what to say to that. Of course he knows that someone else was behind all the big things - him getting shot, and the body parts, and Moran, and possibly Aunt Claire, and maybe even as far back as Emily's mother's murder. But he also made mistakes, like talking to Mister Tonga (and going out of Grandmother's house in the first place) and eating that pie. He made extra work and trouble for both Father and John with his panic attacks. And he _did_ forget to put his phone in his pocket, and he made Father worry - and probably John, too - by going with Irene.  
  
But Father doesn't want him to think about those things, so he tries hard now to package them up and put them far away. He knows Father has compartments in his brain where he can lock up things he doesn't want cluttering his mind. Tristram hasn't figured out how to do that in any kind of organised way, but there's a cloudy, dark corner in his imagining where he buries all the unpleasant things. There aren't any walls, and a lot of times those things come oozing back out, but he tries now to stuff all the bad parts of the past few weeks in there. It's not quite a clean job - he can still feel some sharp bits poking at him uncomfortably - but it's enough that he can manage a smile. A pretty big one. It must be convincing because Father's face does the same thing back at him.  
  
And then he catches sight of someone else over Father's shoulder. Two someone elses: Emily and John. They're both beaming at him, and as soon as Tristram makes eye contact, Emily leaps away from her father and shouts, "Tris!" John must have been holding her back all this time, because she shoots toward Tristram like a taut rubber band that's been let fly.  
  
Father turns toward the sound and lets Tristram slide down toward the floor. Tristram's not nearly ready to let go yet, but he has no choice other than to put his feet under him if he doesn't want to end up deposited on his rear. Emily's there to hold him up, though, with her arms around him, kind of jostling him up and down. Her smile is giddy, and she's saying something about Baker Street and Mrs Hudson and eyeballs. Tristram doesn't really catch it all, but that's okay. Everything's okay; more than that, it's spectacular.  
  
John is there too, now, bending down to put his arms around both Tristram and Emily together. It feels good, almost as good as being hugged by Father. Tristram hugs him back and lets himself enjoy the little pats John adds on his back. His voice sounds a little funny too when he tells Tristram he's brave, and that they missed him, and that he's very, very glad he's back. The last time John told Tristram he was brave, he didn't really feel like he was. Now, though, he thinks maybe he has been. And he's very, very glad to be back too.  
  
He looks around for Father, missing his presence behind him. He finds him standing a couple of metres away with Irene. He has his hands in his coat, but now he takes one out and holds it out to her.  
  
"Thank you," Tristram hears him say. He supposes Father means to thank her for bringing Tristram back, which doesn't quite make sense to him: if she hadn't taken Tristram away in the first place, she wouldn't have needed to bring him back.  
  
Irene looks like she's weighing the consequences of shaking Father's hand, but after a few seconds she lifts her hand and puts it in his. "You're welcome," she says, like she's a little surprised about it herself.  
  
They stand there holding hands and watching each other, the way Father and John used to. Only it's not really like that. When Father and John used to shake hands for so long, it was like holding your breath until you feel like your lungs are going to burst and then holding it for ten seconds more. This is more like seeing who can hold their breath longer but both of them are cheating by breathing through their nose. Like they both think they're better at it but aren't quite sure and are trying to figure out how the other one's doing it. Finally, they let go.  
  
Then Irene walks over to Tristram. John lets go of him, and Tristram feels him pulling Emily away as well. Tristram's first instinct is to go with them, but he can tell Irene has something to say to him so he stays where he is.  
  
"Well, Tristram." She puts both hands on his shoulders. He's not sure whether she's holding him in place or steadying herself. Her eyes are suspiciously bright. When she speaks, though, her voice is clear and calm. "I'd say your father and John can handle things from here, wouldn't you?"  
  
Of course. Father can handle anything. That was never a question. But Tristram supposes what she means is that her part is done in whatever it was they were all mixed up in, and that she's going to be moving on again. He knew she would eventually, but now that the moment's come, it seems sudden. It's not that he's going to miss her terribly or anything, but he's only just started to get used to the idea of having a mother - of having Irene as his mother. It's like she's leaving in the middle of an experiment, before they've done much more than set out the equipment.  
  
"Where are you going?" he asks. Somehow it's important that he can place her on his mental map when she's not here. It would be even better if he had a clock like the Weasleys' that shows where every member of the family is at any given time. There would be a hand for Father, one for Tristram, and one for Irene... and one for Uncle Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson even though she's not really related to them. And if Mrs Hudson gets to be on there, then so do John and Emily. The clock face would be a little crowded with that many hands, but then the Weasleys' family - Tristram counts them up quickly in his head - is even bigger so it should work.  
  
Tristram expects Irene will say she's off someplace like the Bahamas or Iceland, but instead her face brightens and she tells him, "I'm going to stay with Kate for a while. She has a house right here in London. I told you: no more disappearing acts. I'd like it very much if you'd come visit us." It's not just a tossed-out invitation. Something about the quiet way she says it tells Tristram it's important to her. Then she adds, with a bit more jolliness, "I can't promise anything quite as exciting as the past couple of weeks, but I'm sure we can find something to do."  
  
Tristram's not sure whether by 'exciting' she means the fun things like going up and down mountains, or all the other things like running away from bad guys and getting shot. He could certainly do without the latter, and as for the former... he's not sure he can picture Irene on a toboggan or rolling in the snow. Although, to be fair, he couldn't have pictured his father doing those things before their trip either. He imagines her house (well, Kate's house) will be more like Emily's aunts' house than his and Father's flat. And he does have fun when he goes to the Watsons'. Although, mostly, that's because Emily's there.  
  
"Can Emily come too?" It slips out of him unexpectedly, before he's really thought it through. He realises too late that Irene might not want Emily there - even though she did say she liked her, and that she wanted to be friends.  
  
But Irene just laughs, to Tristram's relief. "If she wants, and it's all right with John."  
  
"Do you want to?" Tristram asks Emily. He really hopes she does. Not just because then he won't be embarrassed for having brought it up, but because that will mean she doesn't dislike Irene quite as much as she did at the beginning. He knows it doesn't really matter whether Emily likes Irene or not, and it won't change his opinion of either of them, but it would just be nice if his friend and his mother got along.  
  
Emily gives Irene a hard stare. "Do you have any severed feet?" she asks, as if that's an important criterion.  
  
Irene looks a bit startled, her eyes flickering to Sherlock and John and back. "I should hope not." Then her expression turns sly. "But I do have a sapphire necklace that's supposed to have a curse on it."  
  
Tristram's eyes go round. An actual curse! Like in the Harry Potter stories!  
  
"There's no such thing as curses," Emily states, like she's made a grand study of the subject. "But I guess we could look at it," she acquiesces as if she's doing Irene a big favour.  
  
"John?" Irene checks with him.  
  
"Yeah, um..." John clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. "We'll see."  
  
"It might give you a chance to do it properly, Doctor Watson." Irene gives him a funny look, half stern and half teasing. "Call me if you need any tips." She picks up the handle of her suitcase and adjusts the strap of her handbag over her shoulder.  
  
"I think I can handle it, yeah," John grumbles, but he almost looks like he's amused too. Or embarrassed. Maybe both. Maybe he doesn't dislike her so much anymore, now that she brought Tristram back. Maybe he and Irene are even starting to be friends.  
  
"I'm sure you will," she says. It almost sounds sad, but she's smiling. Wistful, Tristram supposes, might be a good way to describe it.  
  
She steps back and looks them all over - Tristram, Father, John, and Emily. John has his arm around Emily's shoulder, and Father is standing just behind John so their shoulders overlap. It's possible that Father's hand is resting on John's back, although Tristram can't see from where he's standing.  
  
Irene sighs briskly. "I never would have thought that you of all people would manage it, Sherlock. Look at you, a proper family man."  
  
"Don't you have a cow to harrass, or something?" It almost sounds like the kind of jab Father would take at Uncle Mycroft - Tristram doesn't understand those half the time either - but Father isn't looking at her. He's looking at the side of John's head, with a little furrow between his eyebrows.  
  
Irene chuckles and says, "I have a couple of leads," but Tristram doesn't think Father's paying attention to her anymore, because John turns toward him just then, amused by Father's quip, and their eyes catch and hold. And there - there's that holding-your-breath moment that seems to go on forever. Tristram expects it's going to end in a kiss this time, to be honest, and all of a sudden, Tristram aches to be home. To curl up on the couch and listen to Father's violin. To sit at the kitchen table sorting his soil samples while Father counts mould colonies under his microscope. To pull the sheet shut around his and Emily's beds and tell each other jokes in the dark. To see John lean in behind Father at breakfast and kiss him on the cheek, followed by Father's pleased, almost self-conscious smile. That last one hasn't happened yet, but Tristram can see it in his mind as clearly as any memory.  
  
They don't end up kissing here, although maybe that's only because of Irene's pointed throat-clearing to get their attention. They turn to look at her, John a bit pink in the face and Father a bit irritated.  
  
Irene gives them a knowing smile. "I'll be in touch."  
  
Father's lips form a ghost of a smirk. "No doubt," he says.  
  
They watch her walk away, her back straight and her steps quick and light, until she's swallowed up in the crowd.  
  
Father puts his hand on Tristram's shoulder and steps up close behind him. "Come on. Let's go home."

&&&&&&

  
"Here you are." John's whispered words cause Sherlock to turn his head. John slips into Tristram's darkened bedroom and slides down the wall to sit next to Sherlock on the floor. "They okay?" he asks.  
  
A short distance away, the dim light of the street lamps filtering in through the curtains reveal the gentle humps of two small bodies lying under the covers. The sheet hanging from the ceiling - a makeshift tent at one point - has been pulled aside to give an unimpeded view of Tristram's bed and the old field bed beside it where Emily is sleeping.  
  
Sherlock makes an affirmative sound and returns to watching the children. His knees are drawn up with his arms resting on them. The two men sit there in silence for several minutes, listening to the soft, steady breathing from the beds. John leans his head back against the wall, his hands folded in his lap with his legs stretched out in front of him.  
  
Finally, John speaks in a low voice: "We used to watch Emily sleep for hours, when she was a baby. Me and Mary," he clarifies. "It was like we couldn't believe this little bundle was really alive, and that she'd wake up again all on her own."  
  
The wail of an ambulance siren drifts in faintly from outside, several streets away by the sound of it. Once it's faded completely and the sound of children breathing once again dominates the tableau, Sherlock confides, "I did the same with Tristram. Not just hours. Days. I was terrified to fall asleep at first. I had the irrational thought that if I stopped watching him he'd cease to exist. That the whole thing would turn out to be a dream or a hallucination. Mrs Hudson finally forced me to turn him over to her for a few hours, before I actually did start hallucinating."  
  
John chuckles a little.  
  
"I still do, you know," Sherlock continues in a hushed tone. "Watch him sleep. Even before the whole..." He waves his hand at nothing in particular. "It doesn't seem real, sometimes... that he's mine, a part of me in him; that he's healthy and clever and ... a whole person."  
  
John smiles fondly. "Yeah." He presses his shoulder against Sherlock's, and Sherlock settles against him. After a moment, he gropes for John's hand. John lets him slot their fingers together, then lifts their joined hands and kisses Sherlock's knuckles. Then he lowers their hands again and lets them rest on his thigh, still interlaced. They sit like that for quite a while until John's head starts to droop forward.  
  
Sherlock touches him on the arm. "John," he says.  
  
John's head pops up and he makes an inquisitive, if sleepy, sound.  
  
"Go to bed," Sherlock says.  
  
John inhales sharply and lets it out again. "Yeah okay," he agrees. He shifts a bit and lets go of Sherlock's hand in preparation for getting up. Before he does, though, he pauses. "Is it all right if I use your bed?"  
  
"I think we're beyond the point of being proprietary about beds, don't you?" Sherlock remarks.  
  
John grins. "Yeah." He tilts his head to the side, prompting for a kiss. Sherlock obliges. The quick reassurance turns into a lingering touch of lips. "Will you come down later?" John asks. Even through his sleepiness, his interest is clear.  
  
Sherlock hesitates a beat before answering. "I don't know yet."  
  
"Okay. L-" John starts to say something but ends up clearing his throat instead. "Later then. Tomorrow. See you tomorrow." He squeezes Sherlock's arm and pushes himself to his feet. "Good night," he whispers.  
  
Sherlock grunts an acknowledgment. John lets himself out, leaving the door open behind him.

&&&&&&

  
Tristram waits to the count of a hundred and twenty. Is Father still here? He only heard John going down the stairs, but it's so quiet now he thinks Father might have left as well. He allows himself to crack his eyes open. It's normal for a person's eyelids to open or flutter a bit while they're in REM sleep. Plus it's dark. Father won't see. He has to shift his head a bit - carefully, carefully, keeping his breathing nice and slow - but then he can see Father's shape - pale skin and white shirt - down low between the dresser and the door.  
  
It turns out Irene was telling the truth about keeping him safe while Father and John were busy setting a trap for the man who was doing all the bad things. Even Emily had to go stay with Uncle Mycroft. Tristram has a brief, ridiculous vision of Uncle Mycroft playing Super Mario Kart with her. On the other hand, he never would have dreamed that Father would enjoy reading the Harry Potter books out loud to him. And if anyone could get Uncle Mycroft to play video games, it would be Emily.  
  
Tristram knows this wasn't a typical case. Obviously. It's not just the strange and scary things that happened, though. Something shifted during the course of it. Maybe because Father was actually working with someone - with John, and possibly with Irene as well. Not the way he works with the police, which is generally less 'working with' than 'working next to' or 'working around' or even 'working behind their backs'. Tristram knows that John and Father disagreed a lot about what they should be doing, but in the end they did it together.  
  
"Father?" Tristram whispers, he hopes not loud enough to wake Emily up. He can tell she's not faking.  
  
He hears a soft rustle of clothing as his father stirs. He watches the pale shape detach from the wall and move toward the bed.  
  
"I thought you were asleep," Father says, his voice pitched low.  
  
Tristram feels a little burst of triumph at that, because he finally fooled Father. Granted, it's dark; he might not have fooled him if Father had been able to see him clearly. Still, it counts, Tristram thinks. But that's not why he wanted to talk to Father.  
  
"Tell John to stay," Tristram tells him. "I want him and Emily to stay. She can share my room."  
  
"It's not that simple."  
  
"Do you want them to stay?"  
  
Father doesn't answer for a pretty long time. Tristram thinks he's not going to at all when he hears the faint "Yes."  
  
A warm lump of happiness blooms in Tristram's stomach. "Good. Me too. Tell him."  
  
"I can't promise he'll want to," Father hedges.  
  
Of course he wants to. Obvious. Tristram has no doubt about that. "Just tell him," he repeats, even though he knows he's won the argument. Father may take a while to get around to it, but he'll do it eventually.  
  
They've apparently reached Father's limit for such things tonight, though, as he now says, "Good night." He puts his hand on Tristram's forehead and smooths his hair back. It's a rare gesture, but not entirely unprecedented. Usually he only does it when he's checking Tristram's eyes for signs of infection or illness. But this time it's simply for the sake of touching him, and maybe even a reassurance that he's taking Tristram's petition seriously.  
  
Then Father stands up and does something that's entirely unprecedented. He reaches over Tristram and touches the top of Emily's head too, letting his hand rest there just for a moment before withdrawing it again.  
  
Tristram is still trying to figure out what that was about when Father slips quietly out of the room.

&&&&&&

  
Sherlock lifts the covers and slides into the warmth beside John. John doesn't react until Sherlock turns onto his side and draws his knees up, brushing against John's leg. Then he stirs and makes a sleepy questioning sound.  
  
Sherlock sighs and rests a hand on John's shoulder. John rolls onto his side so he's facing Sherlock. Their knees bump. John's limbs are still heavy with sleep and Sherlock's unused to fitting in around someone else, but they shift and adjust until their legs are intertwined and they each have one arm slung over the other. John bumps his face clumsily against Sherlock's, hitting his chin rather than his mouth with his lips. Sherlock tilts his head to make up for it, and they spend a few minutes exchanging lazy, gentle kisses. The mood is comfortable and easy, neither one of them angling for anything else. It's more of an affirmation and agreement, acceptance and answer. After a while, they let their lips separate, although they stay where they are, sharing air and gently stroking each other's backs and arms.  
  
"It's not always like this," Sherlock says, hushed, into the rarefied atmosphere.  
  
"Hm?" John's voice is low and sated, his fingers tracing the lines of Sherlock's bones.  
  
"My life," Sherlock explains. "It's not always kidnappings and shootings and running away from unstable criminal masterminds."  
  
John's hand stops moving. "You're not trying to scare me off, are you?" The question is posed teasingly, and Sherlock chuckles.  
  
"No." Sherlock's smile is audible in the word. Then he crowds John closer against his body and repeats the answer, more solemn and fierce. "No." He kisses John again, and this time there's more lingering, more depth of meaning. When they part, both are panting slightly.  
  
"Good," John says. "I draw the line at a minivan, though."  
  
"God forbid," Sherlock agrees.  
  
"I'd rather boil my eyeballs in acid."  
  
"They disintegrate sixteen times faster than in acid at room-temperature," Sherlock informs him, quite sincerely.  
  
John bursts out in giggles. "Oh Jesus." His body shakes with mirth and he presses his face into Sherlock's neck. As his laughter fades, he tightens his grip on Sherlock. There's already no space between them, but he tries to press them even closer together. "Jesus, Sherlock," he says, his lips just brushing Sherlock's skin. His voice comes out gravelly. "I think I'm ruined."  
  
Sherlock swallows, the sound loud in the sudden silence. "Me too. John Watson."  
  
John lifts his head so he can see Sherlock's eyes in the faint, grey light of the room. It may even be approaching dawn. John puts his hand on the side of Sherlock's face, grazing his thumb over the slight roughness. "Sherlock," he says, soft and aching, and lowers his mouth to Sherlock's once again.  


 

&&& THE END &&&

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great big thank you once again to my beta readers, dioscureantwins and ruth0007 for their invaluable insights, advice, and general good sportsmanship.
> 
> Thanks to all of you readers for being patient through my forays into the Swiss countryside as well as your comments and encouragement.
> 
> And most of all, thanks to [nox_candida](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/) for creating this universe and these characters and for indulging my little obsession with them. None of this would have been possible without her, and I am very grateful.


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